Mistress By Blackmail(38)
A blush of embarrassment heated her cheeks. She scrambled off his lap and onto the seat beside him.
He let her go, but the smile grew wider. “I’ll take this to mean you wish to finish this in the penthouse.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. She’d lost her mind, her soul in his kiss. Was she ready for this? She was sure to disappoint him, wasn’t she? Her piddly little experience wouldn’t be a match for this man’s.
“No, you don’t.” He lunged over and drew her into his warm arms again. “You made the first move. I won’t let you back down now.”
His kiss was fierce, primeval, intense. It told her clearly she’d gone too far down the road and this powerful male was intent on convincing her to not run away.
The limo door opened and Marc let her go for only the time it took to step out into the underground parking lot. With one swift move, she was in his arms again. Marching to the elevator, he stared at her, his face stark and tight with passion. “Push the button.”
His gaze was full of challenge. If she pushed the button, his look told her, she was agreeing to finish what she started.
She stared at him. Stared at the smoky passion of his eyes, the curl of his hair, mussed by her hands. The wicked mouth beckoning to her desire.
Leaning down, she pushed the elevator button.
He groaned deep in his throat, an animal call to her female core.
Lifting her arms to twine around his neck, she kissed him, sweet and tender, giving him everything.
The elevator doors slid open. He stepped in with her in his grasp, their mouths locked.
The trip to the penthouse passed in a blur of kisses, growing more and more passionate. Heat poured from his body, and a trickle of sweat ran between her breasts. A fire deep inside pulsed an electric desire through her blood. It pooled between her legs. She felt the warm, wet welcome for him.
He breathed Italian words on her skin, his mouth skimming over her brows, her eyelids, her cheeks and ears.
The door slid open and somehow, they found themselves at his penthouse door. Nerves mixed with excitement as she told herself she could make him happy. In bed. In life. She should take this chance.
He finally got the door open. But then, he stopped cold, his grip on her tightening. “Blake?”
“Marcus.” A tall, blond man stood in the middle of the penthouse living room. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”
Chapter 8
The hospital smelled of bleach and dread.
Darcy sat on the edge of a vinyl couch, hands clasped on her lap. A cold cup of coffee held its droopy position on the table beside her. It had long ago given up any warmth or comfort. She’d barely sipped it before setting it down and forgetting it existed.
The only thing that existed was her father’s heart attack. Her father at death’s door.
The father she hated.
Her fingers turned white. She shouldn’t think like that. The bitter thought wasn’t sending out good vibes and her father needed all the luck he could get right now. It didn’t matter how he’d treated her when she’d been a kid. What mattered was he needed to get through this surgery and then recover.
So she could walk away from him for good.
“Darcy.” A dark voice slanted across the room from the open door of the waiting room. “Il mio piccolo uno, you appear as if a good strong wind will blow you away.”
He was calling her another one of his annoying nicknames, she thought vaguely. She glanced over, noticing his pristine perfection. How did the man continue to appear as if he’d stepped off the cover of a GQ magazine? His hair swept back from his forehead in impeccable precision. His white shirt lay smooth on his broad chest. His black linen slacks, with not a wrinkle to be found, highlighted the long length of his legs. The leather jacket he’d slipped on before they left the penthouse gave him a cosmopolitan, continental elegance.
She, on the other hand, still wore the ratty old jeans and scraggly jumper she’d put on more than twenty-four hours ago. Her hair probably stuck out like electric needles on top of her head. And she didn’t even want to think about the bags under her eyes from no sleep and constant worry.
Her, a wet rag. He, a crisp linen handkerchief.
The comparison came to her in stark clarity. Along with the memory of when she’d felt it before. A brief astonishment coursed through her. It seemed light years away, the time in the splendor of the Plaza. When she’d been afraid of his perfection, afraid of what he did to her. Another lifetime.
During the last few days, during the last twenty-four hours, he’d become something much more to her. She shied away from what exactly he’d become, still she knew it wasn’t fear she felt around him any longer.