Mistress By Blackmail(55)

Still, right now, lollygagging around in bed wasn't what she wanted to do.

A burst of energy rushed through her.

She got herself out of the bed and into the bathroom in record time. As the hot water poured on her in the shower, she took an inventory of the aches she’d never felt before. She had a slight bruise on one breast. A love bruise. How batty was it that she liked it? She liked the thought of his brand on her skin.

Okay. She was as bad as all those women she used to scorn. She was seriously gaga over her guy. If she didn’t get herself together before she saw him, she was likely to drool, say brainless things, and generally make a fool of herself.

“No way,” she promised herself as she wrapped a towel around her body.

Instinctively, she knew, he wouldn’t want that. She’d have to be careful with him. Not show the joy and love pounding inside her. At least, not yet. Staring into the steam-covered mirror, she took stock of her situation. Tried to bring some reality to her sex-fogged brain and love-soaked heart.

Marcus had only ever claimed he wanted sex with her.

In a little more than a week, her time with him would be done.

She swished her hand across the mist and encountered two worried blue eyes.

“You can change it,” she whispered.

What she wanted more than anything in the world was to stay with him, be with him.

Forever.

A man who held women in contempt.

A man who’d blackmailed her.

A man who’d never indicated by his words he felt anything for her other than lust.

Her throat tightened. “Stop it.”

She would focus on the bright side of this. And there was lots of bright.

He’d helped dear old dad for her sake. Spent a fortune on private medical care. He’d given her a room to paint in his penthouse. Spent a fortune putting it together. He’d arranged her first gallery opening. Been there at her side the entire time. Launched her art career into the stratosphere.

There was a lot to build on, a lot to hope for if a girl simply examined the guy’s actions.

Actions spoke louder than words, right?

“What you need,” she announced to her mirrored image. “Is a strategy.”

Marching out of the bathroom and across the hall to her bedroom, she threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. What was the best way to win a man once and for all? She’d never had to think about it. It was completely unfamiliar territory—but she was determined to master it. Some way or another, she was going to win Marcus La Rocca’s love.

And teach him how to live.

The man had serious issues about his lifestyle. Working day and night was not how a person should live. She was going to lure him away from it if it was the last thing she did. She was going to teach him how to laugh and love and give and take. She was going to show him a woman could be trusted, respected.

She was going to love him so hard he’d have to learn how to love in return.

Darcy strode down the hall and into the kitchen. The pristine, precise, polished, and utterly soulless kitchen. From the beginning the room had intimidated her with its bare counters and every cooking utensil known to gourmet chefs gleaming as if daring her to mess with them.

Well. She was going to mess with them for real now instead of using only one pan to warm some soup a time or two.

She propped her hands on her hips and glared at the congregation of don’t-touch-me appliances, tools, and gadgets. Cooking was something she’d learned as a survival skill as a kid. When your mum was too busy entertaining men to earn money and your pop was too busy spending said money on drugs, what else was a kid supposed to do if she wanted to eat?

Over time, cooking had become not only survival, but therapy. Then it had been a way of showing love to her friends. She couldn’t do it by hugging or touching. So she did it by serving great food to an appreciative crowd.

Especially Matt.

A pang of distress twisted in her stomach. She hadn’t done right by her buddy. She hadn’t even thought of him during the last few days. Anger at herself mixed with the distress.

Still, she had time. Granted, not much. But if she could win Marc’s heart using her charm, her love, her body—a girl could hope.

There was also her famous stew. The one Matt always raved about. Peposo, he called it. Peppers and tomatoes and beef and all sorts of spices. She wondered if one brother would be as susceptible to her best dish as the other.

“I bet he is,” she stated to the barren kitchen. “I just bet he is.”

A first step towards her goal. If she did say so herself, a very good first step.



* * *



He was an idiot.

Sognavo di te.

I’ve dreamed of you.

He glared down at the stream of traffic rolling past his office. Watched as the people hurried across the street, winter wind whipping in their faces. Noticed the beginning slices of sleet on the window pane.