Mistress By Blackmail(19)
She hadn’t even heard him come in.
She hadn’t even felt him pick her up.
She hadn’t even noticed his arms encircling her.
How could this have happened? She never let anyone touch her. Never for long. Certainly never for a whole night.
“You have an amazing figure.” The husk was deeper, richer in his voice. “The sunshine through your nightgown makes for an astonishing display.”
Gasping, she twisted to face him, wrapping her arms around herself in a vain attempt to conceal.
“As I’m sure you know.” Irony laced his words.
He was naked. At least, his chest was naked. The sight of his male gloriousness froze her in her tracks. Rather than running for the bathroom and a good set of clothes, she turned into a twit who could only gaze at perfection and lose all sensibility.
His shoulders were broad and thick with muscle. In his business suits, he exuded a sleek, lithe grace. Naked, though, he showed his true colors. A warrior body, ready for battle. Ready to conquer. Ready for action.
Action you aren’t willing to give him, her brain yelled.
Why not? her body hummed.
His skin was dark olive, a rich, satin covering for those fabulous muscles. It glistened in the sunlight as if he were sweating slightly. The hint of moisture only increased the urge she had to reach out and touch. Glide the tips of her fingers over the warm flesh and feel his life flow pumping through his body.
A swirl of dark hair graced his pectoral muscles and the center of his chest, then thinned into an arrow pointing down, down, down. For a desperate, depraved moment, she was quite angry at the sheets for hiding where that arrow ended.
“Do you like what you see?” He smiled, the dimples appearing. “I do.”
Taking her lust by the throat, she turned and hurried into the adjoining bathroom. She slammed the door on his chuckle and muttered a very dirty word.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She'd lost her cool and lost another battle last night. Instead of telling the Great Man to take a hike, instead of demanding he get her another room, or instead of insisting she would sleep on the couch downstairs—
“Daft cow.” Darcy glared at the mirror.
She’d fallen asleep, let down her guard, and found herself in a bed with him. Then to top it off, rather than telling him off for moving her, touching her, taking her in his arms as she slept, she’d stood like a git and drooled.
And he knew it. Damn it.
Safe? She must have taken some kind of crazy pill. Safe with this man? Wherever that feeling had come from, she needed to send it right back. Because the last word she would use for Marcus La Rocca was safe.
She yanked the borrowed nightgown off her and stomped into the shower, and punishing herself with cold water. Standing under the pounding spray, she lectured herself.
Keep your focus on winning.
Seduce this man with your charm.
Play your game. You know the game.
She stepped from the shower feeling more assured. Staring into the mirror again, she stuck out her chin and watched with satisfaction when the light of battle flickered in her eyes.
There she was. The girl she knew. The survivor. The fighter.
She’d lost the first few skirmishes between them. So what?
The war would still be won.
The Great Man was simply another person in a long line of people who had stepped into her life and thought, for whatever reason, she was a pushover. Maybe it was being short. Or skinny. Or maybe it was because she met everyone with a cheery grin. She was used to being underestimated. Hell, it often worked in her favor.
Being underestimated would work this time, too.
She slipped on a bulky bathrobe she found hanging behind the door. Much to her relief, it covered her from the top of her chin to the tips of her toes. The arms slid down to cover her hands.
She was ready to meet her adversary’s dimples and distractions.
The bathroom door swung open with a bang.
He was gone.
The sunshine drifted along his pillow and the cream sheets that had covered his body. The light seemed to make the bed glow and shimmer, as if it waited for the Roman god to once more grace it with his presence.
Darcy snorted at herself. What muck.
She was glad he wasn’t here. It left her in peace to dress and gird herself for their next skirmish.
For a moment, she thought about making a statement by dressing in her droopy old suit, but when she opened the wardrobe, the only items she found were the plush and pleasing pile of new clothes. The one item of clothing she owned had disappeared.
Her temper fired. How dare he sneak in here and take it away?
Still, she wasn’t willing to march downstairs in only this bathrobe, however much it covered. It would make her feel nervous, exposed, knowing she was naked underneath it. Knowing he knew she was naked under it.