Mistress By Blackmail(14)
The lobby blurred in front of her as his presence enveloped her.
“Mr. La Rocca.” A man dressed in a tuxedo approached. “How nice of you to visit us once more. If you would follow me, I will show you to your room.”
The Great Man stepped back.
A shudder of something she didn’t want to admit feeling rippled through her, but she was a realist. The blackmail had not doused the lust for him. “Bloody hell,” she muttered.
“Vene.” He barked the word over his shoulder again as he strode towards the elevators.
His arrogance doused the last remaining spark of lust in a flash. Okay, she knew the danger now. So she would tease from a distance. She would cajole from several feet away. She would make sure she never got close enough to be tempted.
And she would win. She would come out of this situation with the win.
“Darcy.” His voice now vibrated with irritation. He turned to glare at her from the elevator doors. The concierge gave her a look of astonishment. The apparent fact she was accompanying the Great Man had managed to crack his smooth facade.
Never let it be said that Darcy Moran wasn’t worthy of being anywhere she wanted to be. Thrusting up her chin, she swept towards them as if she were Queen of England.
La Rocca smirked.
The other man’s eyes widened.
She reached them just as the doors of the elevator hummed open and she stepped in. The men followed. She positioned herself on the other side of the concierge near the wall. Looking at the man, she gave him her best smile. He stiffened and then smiled in a stunned sort of way.
Typical.
It was always this way when she used her finest weapons. Let the Great Man put that in his hat and stew on it. She glanced over to see his reaction.
La Rocca met her gaze from the other side of the man, and drat him, chuckled.
Fine, let him continue to underestimate her. She swung her focus to the front and watched the lights flash as they climbed the floors.
He’d be sorry, very sorry when she won.
Within minutes, they were being ushered into a room filled with Louis XV furniture, Persian rugs, and antique paintings. Her frustration and irritation seeped away when she stepped into the beautiful room. As the two men talked, she circled the living room, slipping her hand across the plush upholstery, admiring the downy carpet with its splashes of vibrant red mixed with muted green and gold. She walked to the fireplace and scanned the oil painting of a Renaissance lady dressed in a vivid purple, her serene visage ruling all she surveyed. Pulling her gaze from what was clearly a masterpiece worth thousands, she noticed the staircase arching to another floor.
This was a hotel? Her mind boggled. The only kind of hotel she’d ever experienced was when her pop and mum got thrown out of their flat and they’d been forced to stay in a hotel room with only one bed. She’d slept on the floor that night, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke.
“The bedroom is upstairs.”
The words jerked her attention from her surroundings and put it solidly on him. The concierge had left.
They were alone.
He lounged on the doorframe, looking impossibly handsome and polished. His suit showed not one tiny wrinkle. His hair swept back from his face in perfect formation. His eyes were clear and alert, even though they’d left London late in the night and it was now close to midnight here. She had slept on the plane, yet as far as she’d seen, he'd never stopped working.
She felt like a wet rag in front of a crisp linen handkerchief.
“You’re tired.”
“A little.” She stepped behind an antique velvet sofa feeling a need for some protection from his perfection.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep.” He took a quick glance at his watch. “I have some work to do.”
“Work. Again.” She stared at him. “At this hour?”
“I can put work aside, carita, if you wish to indulge in my other pursuit.” His lazy grin teased her. “Pleasure.”
“No.”
“Much to my regret. However, I’m a patient man.” He waved to the stairs. “Go on. I’ll be here in the study.”
A sudden thought flashed in her brain. She’d been so caught in the whirlwind which was Marcus La Rocca she hadn’t thought, hadn’t remembered. She glared at him with resentment. “I don’t have any clothes.”
“I took care of it.” He turned and walked toward the study.
“What?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he pointed skyward. “Go and see.”
What overconfidence. The man went ahead and got her some clothes without consulting her? She marched to the elegant stairs, vowing to hate every article of clothing and throw them right in his face.
The upper floor was dominated by the bedroom and bath. Her focus went to the armoire. Throwing open the doors, she gasped. The closet was stuffed full of scarlet satin flounces and frothy cream creations. She couldn’t help herself, her artist hands slid over the gorgeous fabrics. There were dresses and suits, even a long gown in ruby red which fluttered through her hands. She opened the drawers and found cashmere jumpers in a riot of colors along with elegantly cut slacks in fine wool. Another drawer provided a lacy bounty of panties and bras.