No sex.
He'd chuckled under his breath as he'd instructed his PA to make the reservations.
He wasn’t laughing now.
The nymph had pluck and pride. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Much to his displeasure. Eventually, she'd give in to this desire running between them. The current, the electric pull, the demanding, drugging need…there was no way she wouldn't capitulate. Meanwhile, though, it appeared he was in for some long nights and some cold showers.
Why the hell was he putting up with this behavior?
Rolling over, he surveyed her once more. He could have done this another way. He could have paid her a sum which would ensure she stayed far from his brother. He could have thrown her father in her face and then trotted her off to be taken care of by his security team for the next month. Instead, he’d ensured she was in his presence, by his side, in his sights for the foreseeable future.
Why?
Sure, there was the sexual draw. Yet he’d been drawn to many women sexually. Sex was the only draw women ever had for him. None of the women he’d had were such a pain in the ass. Why the hell was he putting up with her screeching, her stomping? Why didn’t he shove her on the plane back to London and lock her away until after the wedding?
She murmured in her sleep, her plump lips parting to breathe. The driving desire for her lashed at his control and concentration. Without intending to, he lifted his hand, ran a finger down her cheek, then slid it across her mouth. She felt as soft as a kitten, as downy and plush as the ripest peach. He remembered with stark clarity the taste of her. The sweet mixed with zing and zest.
The woman moved restlessly, arching into his touch.
Her hair flowed through his hands, silken strands warmed by her skin. It curled around his fingers, tugging him closer. He leaned in, watching as her long, black lashes fluttered on her creamy cheeks and then, lay still. Her pointed chin, the one she seemed to be continually jutting into the air when she was yelling at him, the chin begged for a kiss. A touch of his mouth brought another sigh from hers. She moved, moved into his arms, snuggling into the curve of his shoulder. The smell of her wrapped around him, honey mixed with cinnamon and sunshine. Appropriate for a sprite who was sugary sweet one moment and all sexy spice the next.
His arm rested on her curving back, his hand on her slight hip.
Che diavolo. There was no way he was going to let this woman out of his sight until he’d touched every part of her, kissed every inch of her, been deep inside her. Then this unwilling fascination for her would disappear. She would become like all the other women he’d had in the years since Juliana.
Nothing special.
Nothing memorable.
Nothing he would allow into his heart.
* * *
She was safe.
Swimming between sleep and wakening, Darcy hung on tight to the unfamiliar feeling. One she hadn’t experienced in so long… Well, she couldn’t remember when she’d ever felt this way.
What did it matter? Living in the moment was one of her best skills.
She snuggled into the cozy covers. Unlike the sheets and bedding she was used to that scratched and snagged, these were silky on her skin, velvety and light. A firm warmth permeated from underneath her pillow. It smelled delicious, musky with a touch of something she couldn’t describe. Something oddly familiar.
The comfort of her covers and pillow was intensified by the heat along her back. Had she gone to bed with a heating pad? She didn’t even own one. Again, what did it matter? Her brain musty with sleep, she burrowed deeper into the covers, arching her whole body into the heat.
Safe. I’m safe.
Sunshine filtered across her face. She’d have to get going soon. She had things to do. Matt wouldn’t put her up forever. Getting her own place was a priority. Still, just a few more minutes of this bliss. Just a few more minutes. She purred in contentment.
“Piccola carita,” a deep, humor-filled voice rumbled in her ear. “If you make noises like a kitten and arch into me like one, I must assume you wish to be petted.”
Her eyes popped open. An antique painting of some Renaissance king glowered at her from the opposite wall in arrogant disdain. Sudden memory slapped away her feelings of being safe.
The panic rushed in right behind.
Yanking herself out of his arms, she jumped from the bed like the proverbial scalded cat.
La Rocca chuckled behind her.
How could she have fallen asleep last night? She’d been sure when she marched up the stairs—tight with the familiar fear and intense anger at his arrogance—she’d been positive there’d be no sleep for her. Not until he rose from the bed and left for one of his inevitable business meetings. She’d pulled off one of the covers from the massive bed and lay on the floor, promising herself she’d be far too uncomfortable to miss his appearance in the room.