The Innocent's One-Night Surrender
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He touched her chin with one fingertip, tilting her face to his. ‘This can really be very simple.’
‘To you.’
‘And to you. Why not?’ He stroked her cheek and she closed her eyes. A shudder went through her. ‘See how you respond to me?’ he murmured. ‘And I haven’t even kissed you yet.’ He stroked her cheek again, enjoying the silky feel of her skin, the tremor that went through her whole body. ‘We are going to be very, very good together, bella. I feel it. I know it.’
She let out a shuddering gasp and then opened her eyes, wrenching herself away from him as if she had to break steel bonds to be free. Her eyes shot blue-green sparks at him as she clutched the gaping robe together with one hand.
‘What I know, Cristiano, is that you’re an arrogant, manipulative bastard and I have no intention of making any sort of deal with you, now or ever. So why don’t you practise your so-called charms on some other woman who wants them?’ With another gasp that sounded halfway to a sob, she turned from the room and ran down the hall, slamming the bedroom door behind him and then turning the lock with an audible click.
LAUREL FELT AS if she needed another shower. She paced Cristiano’s bedroom, her heart racing, her whole body tingling despite the storm of indignation raging through her. No matter what big words she’d just thrown at him, she’d been tempted—seriously tempted—and for one glorious second she’d been sure he was going to kiss her, had imagined the sensuous slide of his lips along hers...
What was happening to her? How had she fallen down this rabbit hole of manipulation, sex and greed? She lived a quiet life in a small town in Illinois, working as a nurse, possessing a handful of casual friends, and no boyfriends, ever. For a second she pictured her grandfather’s farmhouse—its floorboards of weathered, honeyed oak, the view of rolling fields from the kitchen window, the friendly glimmer of the pond in the distance. She ached to go home, for things to feel familiar and safe again. Boring, even. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of this—not her mother, not Bavasso, not Cristiano.
Liar.
She silenced that taunting inner voice by sheer strength of will and tried to think practically about what she should do now, since she seemed intent on burning her bridges both left and right.
She couldn’t leave Cristiano’s penthouse, not yet anyway. She took his warning about Bavasso seriously...just as she took his offer of no-strings sex seriously.
Why wouldn’t you become the man’s mistress?
Frustration bubbled inside her and she paced the room, feeling both frantic and caged. She wouldn’t become the man’s mistress because she had more self-respect than that. More pride. And more of an instinct of self-preservation. Sex with Cristiano would burn her up, leaving nothing but cinders. She felt that in her very bones, knew it from the way she’d reacted to his hand on her shoulder, the merest brush of his hips against hers...
Heat flared through her at that potent memory and she whirled away from the window, pacing the room to the bathroom and back. At this rate she’d wear out the thick pile carpet.
A knock sounded on the door and she stilled, every muscle tense, every sense on high-octane alert. ‘Yes?’
‘Your clothes have arrived.’
She couldn’t tell anything from Cristiano’s tone. Warily Laurel opened the door. He stood there, one hand outstretched with several luxury shopping bags dangling from his long, lean fingers.
‘Thank you,’ Laurel said stiffly, taking the bags. ‘You didn’t have to get so much.’
‘Who knows how long you will be here, bella?’ Cristiano answered lazily.
‘Not very long, if I can help it,’ Laurel retorted. ‘I’m going to get dressed and then we need to talk.’
‘Excellent. I’ve ordered some food, so we can talk as we eat.’
It all suddenly seemed so civilised, Laurel thought with a savage twist of humour as she closed the door. Almost as if Cristiano wasn’t keeping her captive, intending for her to be his mistress. To keep her here for sex. It seemed ridiculous, laughable, yet she felt the seriousness of the situation all the way through her body, right down to her toes.
She emptied the bags on the bed, blinking at the sight of the elegant clothes, which included several outfits, including undergarments. How on earth had he managed to know her bra size? she wondered as she picked up a push-up bra in nude lace and coffee-coloured satin. Although, on second thoughts, Cristiano no doubt could gauge a woman’s bra size from across a crowded room.
She chose the most conservative outfit, a swishy knee-length skirt in pale blue and a matching silk T-shirt top. Now that she was finally dressed in something that was neither revealing nor inappropriate, she felt a little more restored to herself. Almost as if the last seventy hours had never happened. Almost, but not quite.
In addition to the clothes, Cristiano had thoughtfully provided a bag of luxury toiletries, and Laurel took advantage of them, putting on a little discreet make-up, brushing her hair and twisting it up into a knot.
Taking a deep breath, she headed out of the bedroom. She found Cristiano in the dining area on the far side of the living room setting out food on a table that looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of ebony.
Laurel inhaled the tantalising scents of basil and lemon, and realised she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. All evening Bavasso had plied her with cocktails she’d tried not to drink and no food.
Her stomach growled audibly and Cristiano looked up, humour glinting in those silvery eyes. Laurel managed a little laugh. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘So I hear.’ He gestured to one of the chairs, made of gleaming black wood. ‘Come sit down.’
Laurel hesitated, discomfited by this apparently new normal. Then she decided she would take what civility Cristiano offered, and she slid a chair out and sat down as he lifted the silver domes off several dishes.
‘What would you like?’ Cristiano asked as he lifted a plate. Laurel glanced at all the different dishes of Italian specialities, from fiore di zucca, a Roman dish of courgette fritters, to pasta carbonara and several delicious-looking salads.
‘It all looks good to me.’
‘Then I shall give you a bit of everything.’
Laurel watched as he ladled the different dishes onto her plate, feeling as if she’d fallen down yet another rabbit hole. Why had Cristiano changed his tune so drastically? Why was he being so nice?
‘Thank you,’ she murmured as she took her plate from him. Cristiano filled up his own and sat down on the opposite end of the table.
‘Dig in,’ he said in the same mild tone he’d been using since she’d emerged from the bedroom. ‘I’m glad the clothes fit,’ he said with a nod to her skirt and top. ‘That colour of blue was a good choice. It brings out your eyes.’