Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians (8 page)

What a fool she was. Thinking he was making a move. When what he was really after was his lifeline, his real passion. A streak of hurt zipped through her brain and settled into her heart. Which only made her more of a fool.

She scowled at him.

Chuckling, he moved away from her, back to his side of the limo seat. “I like your spirit. It will be infinitely enjoyable when you bring it to my bed.”

Breathing in a shaky breath, she tried to pull herself together. Tried to put on a brave face. “You’ll b-be waiting a long time.”

“But eventually the wait will be over,” he returned the volley without missing a beat.

She turned her head away from him.

Yet there was no escaping him, was there? No escaping the press who followed his every move. No escaping her lust for him. No escape for the next month.

Fear wrapped around the lust, making her sick.

Icy rain began to fall. Darcy watched as the rivulets of water slid down the window.

T
he lavender velvet
brushed on her hand. It shimmered in the sunlight shining through the limo windows. For November, the day was surprisingly warm. She hadn’t even worn a coat. Instead, she’d opted for the most beautiful garment in her expanded wardrobe. A tight velvet jacket paired with a matching short skirt. Tall black heels and fancy black silk stockings with matching garters finished the attire with flair.

Darcy felt like a movie star or a member of the royalty.

Or the mistress of a very rich man.

His voice spoke Italian beside her. Into the phone, of course. They were on their way to another of his interminable business meetings. This must be…she thought for a moment…at least the tenth meeting she’d attended over the last two days. He hadn’t allowed her from his sight. She’d been dragged to luncheons with old men. Board meetings with alarmingly smart men and women. There’d been the charity brunch were the Great Man had given the keynote speech in front of a group of swooning ladies. Plus, the trips to the theatre and opera in the evening.

She hadn’t had a moment to herself. Not a moment to see some of the sights she’d promised herself.

She was having a fabulous time.

Amazing. She’d never seen herself as a wine-and-dine kind of gal. She’d never pictured herself enjoying the company of some of the richest people in the planet. She’d certainly never imagined herself understanding most of what was discussed around a long, impressive table in a corporate boardroom at a public meeting.

She’d loved every minute of it. Charming the old men into telling her stories of their grandchildren. Smiling at everyone in the boardroom until she saw the tension ease, replaced with cordial talk and occasional laughter. The gaggle of women, who had first scrutinized her as if she weren’t worthy of the La Rocca; well, even they had succumbed to the Darcy Moran magic. One of them had even hugged her as they had left the brunch, pleading with her to return next year.

Now that had finally gotten a reaction from him. He’d lifted his dark brows.

At least, it was a reaction.

Because all the while she’d cut a swath through New York society, Marcus La Rocca had stood by her side and gave no real acknowledgment of her accomplishment. Rather than giving her her due, he’d demanded and dictated. He announced where they were going next. Told her what to do.

Her hand fluttered across to grip the door handle.

Remembered irritation simmered inside her. He hadn’t complimented her after the old men had at first said
no
to his proposal, but then after a lunch with her, had said
yes
. He hadn’t noticed when she’d eased the way for him in the stuffy boardroom. He certainly hadn’t uttered a word about how she could charm women as well as men.

Nope. She’d only gotten a raised eyebrow for all her efforts on his behalf.

Why the hell was she doing it? Why was she exerting herself to smooth his path before him? Why did he keep dragging her with him if he barely paid her any attention?

Darcy flattened her fingers on the plush velvet.

She’d asked. Questioned him on why she had to trot behind him. Stated her desire to take off on her own. To no avail. He waved her words and desires away, intent on getting his way. Which was typical. Still, what could she do?

Your father, Darcy. Your father.

He’d said it so many times during the last few days she heard it in her sleep.

Smoothing her hand on her skirt, she sighed.

“Stop doing that.”

Her hand froze. “What?”

“You are driving me crazy.” His eyes blazed. With anger?

She was simply sitting here minding her own business. On her way to another of his meetings where she’d probably have to, once again, save the day. But was the man appreciative? Obviously not. Why should she expect anything different than his usual chilly manner towards her?

“What are you talking about?” she said. “I’m sitting here because you demand it. I am going to another meeting because you wanted it. I am dressed the way you—”

“Touching.” The silver of his gaze burned like hot metal. “You keep touching.”

“Huh?” She stared at him in shock.

“You are always doing it.” His hand raked through his hair, leaving it ruffled and oddly appealing. “Running your hands over furniture, over car seats,
per l'amor di dio
. Over your damn body.”

“I do?” She glanced at her offending hands.

“
Si.
” The word shot out like a bullet. “It drives me crazy.”

What was she supposed to say?

I’m sorry I like to touch things
?
Because I dream of touching you instead.

A wash of color flooded her cheeks as she remembered this morning. For once, she’d been the first one awake. The past two mornings she’d awakened alone. Even his pillow was cold. When she’d meandered down the stairs, there he was. At his laptop, on his phone. Working, working.

This morning, though, he’d been beside her asleep.

The early morning sunlight had slid along his naked shoulder, burnishing the olive skin until it glowed. Again, she noticed how long his dark lashes were. Usually, the stunning silver of his eyes garnered all her attention. The lashes graced his cheeks, making him appear younger and sweeter.

Before she knew it, she’d succumbed to his appeal.

The rasp of his beard felt wonderful along the palm of her hand. The softness of his lips on the tips of her fingers gave a startling contrast. His hair curled warmly through her fingers as she slipped her hand through the dark strands.

He’d murmured, moved.

Like a dart, her hand had snapped back to her side just in time.

He’d opened his eyes and looked at her flushed face. Then he’d chuckled.

“Did I miss something?” he’d whispered.

“Nothing,” she’d mumbled before she’d scampered from the bed and into the sanctuary of the bathroom.

His phone buzzed, pulling her out of her memories. With an impatient jerk, he turned away from her. Italian words intermixed with English immediately rolled from his mouth, only a slight edge to his tone giving any hint he’d been scolding her moments ago. She had to admit, she’d grown fond of listening to him talk. He had a rich, deep voice, and whether he was speaking in his lightly accented English or in his native tongue, the words wrapped around her, making her feel hot and bothered.

But lust was not the only thing she struggled with now.

Darcy stared at the crowds of people swarming on the sidewalk and wished with a sudden, harsh desperation that she could join them, fade into them, walk away from him. Walk away from the lust for him and his distrust of her.

The man thought he welded one almighty weapon against her. He thought she only wanted his body, wanted his sex. Yet during the last few days, exactly as she feared, she’d come to feel more for him.

She’d seen and sensed what she’d already known. What Matt had already told her. The man had no time for friends, much less family. The man was all about business. No one they met slapped him on the shoulder or asked him about his day. Every one of them, from the smart board members to the society ladies to the business types, every one of them saw Marcus La Rocca as a money machine.

Her heart ached for him.

Silly her. The man wasn’t asking for her compassion. He would laugh in her face if she succeeded in articulating what was in her heart; a tumbling mass of reluctant passion and unwilling affection. Nevertheless, it was clear why she’d been using every ounce of her charm to make his day easier, his deals smoother.

She cared. She really, really cared about him. Somewhere along the way, the swamp of lust churning inside her had turned into a deepening pool of…

Darcy clutched the door handle and stared down at her white knuckles.

Run lovey
, her mum whispered.
Run before you turn out like me.

T
he sprite was sitting
over there looking as if she were about to jump from the car. Marcus watched her from the corner of his eye, trying to understand what the hell was going on inside her head. It was an impossible task. Every other woman of his acquaintance was an easy read for his cynical gaze.

Darcy Moran was not.

Juliana Calvi was. Now.

He stared through the limo window, remembering the moment she’d walked across to him at the ball two nights ago. Her lovely dark hair now dyed a harsh blonde. Her gleaming brown eyes, the eyes he thought the most beautiful in the world years ago, now filled with lust. Not for him. But for his money and power.

Her husband had died
, she hummed.

She was free
, she purred.

He’d felt nothing except distaste and a violent urge to run, not walk, away from her.

Juliana was not a fool. She’d left before she was told to.

Release, a strong sense of release had rushed through him. Then he’d glanced over and seen his supposed mistress surrounded by her adoring crowd. And another, entirely unexpected emotion had burned through his blood.

The same emotion welled in him now.

Not jealousy,
per amor di Dio.

Merely irritation.

An irritation he felt every time he saw Darcy. Irritation at her continued stubborn holdout in the bedroom. Irritation at how easily she caused every man in any room she entered to fall all over themselves to get to her side.
Dio
, even the women she met fell right under the nymph’s spell.

Which had worked in his favor several times in the past few days, he had to admit.

Why the hell had he decided to drag her around New York with him? It had been impulse the first day. She’d come down the stairs dressed in a smart pantsuit, lovely and lush. He’d been about to leave for a series of meetings, about to walk out the door and get on with what was important in his life. Long, black lashes had batted across her wide eyes when he announced he was leaving. Pink bow mouth had pouted at the news she was to stay put.

Somehow, she’d ended up in the limo with him.

His phone buzzed. He took the call, watching her as she peered through the window at the city. He’d been surprised at how easily she landed on her feet in every situation. Surprised at how quickly she had people eating from her hand. For all her humble circumstances, Darcy Moran could hold her own with the richest and most powerful.

Which only made her more dangerous.

The woman was a master at her game. He’d underestimated her power. For two days now, he’d watched the charming Darcy operate her magic during the day and dealt with the cuddly Darcy at night.

Why the hell was he letting this woman become a part of his business? Why had he taken her to all these functions, clearly giving the impression she was important to him? He’d never allowed any woman in his personal life to attend any business function. His sex life was entirely separate from his business.

What sex life?
His libido rumbled.

Within minutes of climbing into bed, he found himself with an armful of sleeping, sexy woman. A woman who never reached for him while she was awake. And his damn pride wouldn’t allow him to be the first to make a move. Make a move, and then have her crow at his defeat.

The situation was driving him insane.

Which was exactly her aim, wasn’t it?

She wouldn’t touch him outside of the bed, yet she touched everything else surrounding her. She patted an old man’s cheek. She hugged the women at the brunch. She slid her hand along the limo seat every time they got in. Worse, far worse, she constantly touched herself. Twirling a curl around her finger. Brushing her mouth with her hand. Smoothing her palms across her legs.

He snapped at the manager on the phone. Ended the call. Seethed inside.

“Blimey.”

The yearning lilt in her voice tugged at something inside him. Glancing across the seat, he noticed her face was alight, her hands fluttering in the air rather than lying fisted on her lap.

“What?” he growled, still aggravated that this tiny woman was leading him on a merry dance.

“This is one of the places I wanted to see.”

He glanced out of the window. Cobblestone streets competed for attention with tall, cast-iron buildings. Staircases and railings ran up and down every building creating a sense of movement, of action. The sidewalk teamed with vendors selling purses, jewelry, and art.

“It’s merely another New York street,” he dismissed.

“No, it’s not. It’s SoHo.” She said the words as if she were speaking to a slightly demented moron.

He’d heard of the place. Artsy, new age, that kind of thing. He’d never had the time or inclination to visit this part of the city. Glancing through the window once more, he noted the sizable crowds bustling in and out of the line of bistros and art galleries. Storefronts blazed the names of high-end fashion.

He finally got it.

“You want to shop.” This he could understand. This was predictable.

“Not at all.” She gave him another one of her endless pitying looks. “It’s the art I’m interested in.”

Art. He’d forgotten. It was supposedly what she did for a living. Moreover, according to his reports, she didn’t do it very well. She hardly had a pence to her name at any given time. However, he supposed he could see the draw of this place for a wannabe.

She sighed and peered through the window with a wistful gaze.

The thing inside him tugged once more. He didn’t know what it was, but it twisted inside. Staring at his mobile phone, he noted the meetings on his calendar. Examined the agendas he’d outlined for each of them.

The sprite beside him sighed once more.

Placing a call, he barked instructions in Italian to his PA. He instructed the driver to stop. He opened the door and got out. Extended his hand. “
Vene.
”

Her eyes, wide with surprise, stared at him. “What?”

“Do you want to see this or not?”

“Yes!” She gave him a smile that lit a spark deep inside him.

That thing, the thing he couldn’t define inside him, untwisted.

L
ondon was dreary and cold
.