Mistress By Blackmail(29)
“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.
* * *
The 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.