His To Take: Night One

HIS TO TAKE: NIGHT ONE
Copyright © 2013 by Kera Whisper

Published: 28th March 2013
The right of Kera Whisper to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

—
C o n t e n t s
—

C h a p t e r 1

C
h a p t e r 2

C
h a p t e r 3

C
h a p t e r 4

C
h a p t e r 5

Night One . . .

The maiden being ravished by satyrs reminded me of myself. Immortalized on a mural, she was pale-skinned and redheaded with a curvy figure.

At first I’d thought
that this painting hanging on the back wall of Nico Cesan’s private study was just a stuffy medieval piece, with courtly lords and ladies dancing.

Then my gaze had been drawn to
ward the lower right hand corner to a scene of grotesque sexuality.

The redhead was pinned down on a bed of ivy, surrounded by four satyrs. Their engorged penises were the length of her pale arms, and had bulbous, glistening crowns.

The four had ripped her dress from her breasts and privates. The smallest satyr straddled her head, forcing the wet tip of his erection against her lips, while another extended his lengthy tongue down to coil around one of her stiff, peach-colored nipples. Still another lay beside her, clutching one thigh wide as he humped her hip and pinched her free nipple. The largest knelt between her legs, gripping his shaft to shove into her.

One of the maiden’s hands was fisted
as she shoved the raping satyr away; her other clutched his chest hair, arm bent as if to drag him closer.

L
ight from the study’s crackling fire flickered over the painting, making it look like the characters were moving, in mid-ravishment.

As I stared,
my breaths shallowed. My nipples grew as hard as the maiden’s, my panties dampening—because for a wild moment, I wished I could change places with her. To be penetrated with those thick penises, forced to take their tongues on my flesh.

What is wrong with you, Juliet
?
Ever since I’d gotten to Italy, my body had been out of control.

Everything seemed to make me horny—strange for a
virginal, homebody caretaker from a judgmental small town.

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why
a man like Nico Cesan would have a painting like this in his palatial and tastefully-decorated study.
Naughty, naughty Nico
. It didn’t fit with what I knew of him.

He was a famous playboy, one of the most powerful CEOs in the world, and
“allegedly” had ties to an international underworld of crime.

I
was here because of those ties.

Reminded of my mission, I forced my gaze away from the maiden,
shouldered my hobo bag, and made my way to one of the chairs in front of his massive desk.

W
hen my contact had reached out to him, Cesan had agreed to a meeting with me, inviting me to his Tuscan villa. I didn’t doubt it was because of my Riverleigh last name—the name that had most likely gotten me into my current situation.

I set down my large ba
g, the one that contained my life, then sat. Immediately, I cringed at the steamy wetness in my crotch. My swollen nipples earned a glare. Even in the dimmed firelit room, they were obviously straining against my seamless bra and silk shirt.

I was already intimidated as hell by all the unmistakable wealth staring me in the face; I d
idn’t need to be in heat when Cesan finally arrived.

What sounded like a helicopt
er landed outside, and my heart began racing. Was that him? For a girl like me—whose most recent excitement before this trip was a soap opera cliffhanger—meeting a mega-rich playboy had me in a tizzy.

For the thousandth time I adjusted my
beige skirt, fretting over its length. Why hadn’t I worn Spanx? Was just-above-the-knee too daring? In my backwater hometown of Donovan, Georgia, my outfit would be an acceptable, young professional look. In Italy, it felt matronly.

My p
ink blouse was buttoned almost to the top. I wore minimal makeup: nude lipstick and a little eyeliner to brighten my green eyes. No nail polish, of course. I’d fastened my hair up in a conservative bun, but my natural color was red,
really
red. In the south, they called my shade harlot red.

As my
sour-faced grandmother always said, “That color’ll get you forever ditched—and never hitched.”

It was the same color as the maiden’s.
Stop thinking about that!

I bit my lip
. Calm, Juliet, calm! Wait... was that a scuff on my black heels?

Like a cat pouncing on a ball of yarn, I seized my large purse and hefted it into my lap.
Looking for a Sharpie, I rooted past sample sizes of toiletries, Wisps, antibacterial wipes, my passport with one stamp, my birth control pills.
Not that I needed those for sex
, I thought with annoyance.

Co
me on, come on, Sharpie. It was bad enough that my clothes were knockoffs, but I’d thought they were at least in good repair. Earlier, the starchy butler who’d shown me into this study hadn’t sneered as he’d looked me up and down.

When I was little, my mother had said,
“A lady always has a good bag and nice shoes.”

I was oh for two
, about to meet a man like Cesan.

Sharpie score! I’d just taken the cap between my teeth and started coloring in my scuff when
he
walked in.

I sucked in a breath, almost choking on the cap.

There stood the face of international commerce—
and
crime—and the world’s most eligible bachelor.

He paused in the doorway
, his muscular body and broad shoulders seeming to take up the entire space. I’d known he was over six feet tall, but he looked closer to seven right now.

The
many pictures I’d seen of him had emphasized his chiseled good looks. He’d always been clad a suit, his straight raven-black hair neatly styled.

Now he wore a
black cashmere V-neck sweater that hugged the rises and falls of his muscular chest. His hair was ruffled. From the helicopter? His skin was tanned to a dark bronze. Though he was thirty-four, he looked a shade younger.

Right now, w
ith his piercing dark eyes and the stubble shadowing his masculine jaw, he skewed less toward his commerce ties and more toward his underworld-enforcer ones.

His looks said,
I’m constrained by no laws, have more money than I know what to do with, and I have to beat women off with a stick.

He was utterly breathtaking in person.

He strode toward me, his intense gaze assessing me. “Juliet Riverleigh. Descended of the Boston Riverleighs.”

And late of
Podunk—obviously.
I capped my marker, dropped it in my bag. When I stood, I squared my shoulders. “Mr. Cesan, hello.”

H
e continued closer until I had to crane my head up and up. Not for the first time, I wished I was taller than five foot four—in heels.

Once he stood before me
, I could see his irises were so dark they appeared black. His eyes were naturally a touch heavy-lidded, softening the harder planes of his gorgeous face, giving him a sensual aspect. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it in his large one. It was warm and surprisingly calloused, like he worked with his hands. “The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.” His accent had been described as a mix of Cockney British and upper-crust Italian.

I wouldn’t know. This was my first trip abroad and not many overseas travelers stopped over in my hometo
wn of Donovan, population two thousand.

“Thank you for taking time to see me,” I said.
When my private investigator contact had arranged this meeting, I’d researched Cesan in depth—easy enough since he often graced covers of magazines, with multi-page spreads. He fascinated people, everyone wondering if he was a crime lord, or a classically educated businessman trying to shuck old rumors that refused to die.

They called him the Dark Angel of Milan.

I felt like I’d seen him a million times; yet now an uncanny sense of déjà vu flitted over me. I could swear that we’d actually ... met.

Maybe that was just my little
case of infatuation raising its head. I’d perused photo after photo of him, rereading his interviews. He’d been charming, intelligent, even funny. How could I not nurse a crush on him? He was a polylingual genius, with a Cambridge degree, street cred, and a mysterious past. Plus he looked like Adonis.

I might even have fantasized about him kissing me. Just a bit.

“Your accent is Georgian,” he said, “the state, not the country.”

“Yes, that’s right.” He must’ve done his homework
on me as well.

His gaze flickered over my red hair.
“Georgia. Home of succulent peaches.”

How did one answer that? With a feigned smile, I said, “We’re the peach tree state.”

He raked his eyes from my face, lingering on my damnable nipples, down to my legs and back up. “I was told by our mutual acquaintance that you are twenty-two. Is that correct, Juliet?”

T
he way he said my name gave me tingles. Wait, what did my age have to do with anything? And how could he possibly smell this good? Expensive cologne? No, it was too subtle for that. That scent was all him, clean skin and manly vitality.

I was still staring—wondering h
ow other women could resist burying their faces into his neck—when he frowned at me.

“Your age?”
he grated.

I felt my cheeks redden.
The man probably got ogled like this by every female he came across. “I am twenty-two, just turned.” Determined to focus on the crisis at hand, I said, “I don’t know how much Private Investigator Nazario told you, but I have a urgent problem, and I was hoping you could help—”

Cesan
raised a hand, cutting me off. “So quick to get to business, Juliet? I cleared my night to meet with you.”

Now I was a
rude
, shabbily-dressed ogler. I supposed being cooped up every day with my bitter grandmother had eroded any graciousness and social skills I’d once had. This meeting couldn’t be going worse.

And it couldn’t be more important.

When he crossed to a whiskey service and poured two glasses, I tried to defend myself. “I just know your time is very valuable. And I’d never want to keep you from your work. You must be incredibly busy.”

His shoulders rose and fell.
In a weary tone, he said, “Don’t remind me of work.”

“Bad day?”