The Sicilian's Unexpected Duty(4)

                ‘You told me you’d never had a serious boyfriend before.’

                ‘Exactly!’

                ‘And as I told you before, not having a serious boyfriend does not equate to being a virgin.’

                ‘It does—did—for me.’

                ‘How was I supposed to know that? You’re a twenty-six-year-old woman.’ He’d thought virgins of that age were extinct, a thought he kept to himself. Cara’s skin had gone as red as her hair. He didn’t particularly fancy being on the receiving end of a punch in the face in front of his entire family, even if she would need a stepladder to reach him. There was something of a ferocious Jack Russell about her at that moment.

                ‘You used me,’ she said, almost snarling. ‘You let me believe you were serious, and that we would see each other again.’

                ‘When? Tell me, when did I say we would see each other again?’

                ‘You said you wanted me to come to your new house in Paris so I could advise you where to place the Canaletto painting you bought in the auction.’

                He shrugged. ‘That was business talk. You know about art and I needed an expert’s eye.’ He still needed one; he’d bought his Parisian home to showcase his art collection, but the entire lot was still in storage.

                ‘You said it while dipping your finger in champagne and then placing it in my mouth so I could suck it off.’

                A flare of heat stirred in his groin. That particular moment had been during their last meal together, shortly before she’d agreed to join him in his hotel room and spend the night with him.

                He cut his thoughts off the direction they were headed. The last thing he needed at that moment was to remember anything further about that night. It was becoming uncomfortable enough in his underwear as it was.

                ‘Why didn’t you steal my phone from the outset? Why string me along for a whole weekend?’ Her eyes were no longer firing hostility at him. All he saw in them was bewilderment.

                It had been easier dealing with Aunt Carlotta’s jabbering mouth than with this. Okay, he got that Cara felt humiliated—he hardly recalled his actions that weekend with pride—but surely it was time for her to get over it?

                ‘I couldn’t steal your phone because you keep your handbag pressed so tightly to you I knew it would be impossible to steal.’ Even now, she had the long strap placed diagonally over her neck and across her chest, the bag itself tucked securely under her arm.

                ‘I’m surprised you didn’t arrange for someone to mug me. I’m sure between you and your brother you know enough shady people to do the job. It would have saved you wasting a weekend of your precious time.’

                ‘But you could have got hurt,’ he argued silkily. A strange shiver rippled through his belly at the thought, a feeling dismissed before it was properly acknowledged.

                He’d had enough. He’d behaved atrociously but it had been necessary. He wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of the evening apologising for it. He’d never told her an actual lie—how she’d interpreted his words was nothing to do with him. ‘You share a house with three other women, which made breaking into your home too risky, and you keep your phone on you when you’re working. If you’d left your handbag unattended just once throughout that weekend, I would have taken it, but you didn’t—you didn’t let it out of your sight.’