Visconti's Forgotten Heir(41)

‘But now that there is you’ll take full advantage of the fact?’

‘Can you blame me? Especially when I’m aware of how much you want me to.’

‘That’s not true.’ She turned her head away so that she couldn’t see the mockery in his face—and wished she hadn’t when he took the opportunity to pull her even closer. She sucked in a breath, feeling his breath—warm and erotic—fan the sensitive skin at her hairline.

‘You’re a poor liar, Magenta. I can feel the way your body’s responding to me now, and it isn’t the response of a woman who wants me to leave her alone.’

‘But you’re going to.’ It was a desperate little command rather than a question.

‘Until you’re begging me otherwise.’

She could tell he was smiling. A slow, sexy smile.

‘Verbally, of course.’

His words mocked. But then he could tell from the tension in her body how much she wanted him physically. Her breasts were aching for his caresses and her thighs were tingling above the sheer Lycra of her stockings, sending vibes of raw wanting to the heart of her femininity every time they collided with the hard-muscled strength of his.

Tilting her head back so that she was looking directly up into his incredibly charismatic features, she said huskily, and in a voice that was unintentionally provocative, ‘Did this kind of fascinating technique turn me on before?’

His smile was discerning. ‘It’s working now, isn’t it?’

She uttered a shrill little laugh. ‘Were you always this conceited?’

‘I call it being one step ahead of the game.’

His gaze dropped to her mouth, sending little tremors of excitement through her.

‘And I don’t believe you’ve forgotten quite as much as you claim.’

‘Well, that’s your opinion,’ she breathed, and didn’t tell him that there were more and more pieces of her memory that she was beginning to link together. That it had begun to scare her, and that she was almost terrified of what those still-lost pieces might eventually reveal.

‘What is it?’ Andreas asked over the female singer’s sobbing finale of a story about a woman tortured by love. ‘Am I probing too close to the truth? Or are you having another of your recall moments?’

‘No... I...’ Why did he have to be so astute? So totally ‘ahead of the game’, as he had just claimed to be?

Someone jostled her elbow and Andreas’s arm tightened around her. The steadying action brought her up against his hard, lean length, so achingly close to him that her head began to swim and primitive impulses sent a throbbing awareness trembling through her body.

‘Why don’t we go home?’ His words were a sensual caress against the shining bounty of her hair.

When she didn’t reply, too afraid of what she might say if she did, she found herself allowing him to lead her away from the dance floor.

She didn’t know what he was going to say to his friends, but they were back at their table and he was offering the Ottermans his apologies, extending an invitation for them to come and stay at the house before they returned to the States. His manner was easy and charming, without any need for explanation and without any artifice or awkwardness in his deep tones.

As they were walking out through the luxuriously carpeted foyer, past a round central table containing a huge floral display, Magenta couldn’t even remember saying her goodbyes. All she seemed able to focus on was Andreas’s arm around her shoulders and the need that was escalating inside her with each collision of his hard hip with hers.

It was going to happen, she thought. Despite all she had said and all the objections she had raised she was going to bed with Andreas Visconti again. And she couldn’t decide how she had managed to come this far in just a few short days.

She couldn’t stop it now even if she wanted to, she realised, with her arm slipping automatically beneath his jacket and around his lean waist.

The heat of his body through the fine shirt was a turn-on in itself. Her fingers ached to pull at the expensive silk, just as her body was aching to be closer to him—close enough to feel his burning flesh pulsing against hers.

Weak with wanting, she was counting the seconds until they reached the warm, dark privacy of his car.

‘Andreas! Andreas Visconti!’

A man who had been passing them had stopped and was walking towards them now. He had cropped, receding brown hair and looked a few years older than Andreas.

‘What has it been now?’ He was extending a hand to him. ‘Five years? No, more than that. Six years?

Magenta felt the loss of Andreas’s arm around her shoulders as he shook hands with the man who, from his formal clothes, was obviously also attending the function. Apparently he was called Gerard, Magenta learned when she was introduced to him, and he’d used to be an assistant chef in Giuseppe Visconti’s restaurant. Now he had shares in a small hotel in Brighton.