His For Christmas: Christmas in Da Conti's Bed / His Until Midnight / The Most Expensive Night of Her Life

‘No, none of that!’ She shook her head—hating the way he was looking at her. Hating the way he was talking about her. ‘I don’t care that he’s rich—other than it means I will have a very generous budget to work with. And I don’t care whether or not he finds me attractive. I’d like it if for once we could keep my looks out of it, since I’m supposed to be here on merit.’ She stared at him. ‘What I’m talking about is you telling him I was busy and couldn’t have dinner with him tonight.’

‘Did you want to have dinner with him?’

‘That’s beside the point.’

He slanted her a look. ‘I’m not sure what your point is.’

‘That I don’t want you or anyone else answering for me because I like to make my own decisions. And…’ she hesitated ‘…you have no right to be territorial about me.’

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I realise that.’

She narrowed her eyes warily. ‘You mean you’re agreeing with me?’

He shrugged. ‘For a man to behave in a territorial way towards a woman implies that she is his. That she has given herself to him in some way. And you haven’t, have you, Alannah?’ The eyes which a moment ago had looked so flat now gleamed like polished jet. ‘Of course, that is something which could be changed in a heartbeat. We both know that.’

Alannah stiffened as his gaze travelled over her and she could feel her throat growing dry. And wasn’t it crazy that, no matter how much her mind protested, she couldn’t seem to stop her body from responding to his lazy scrutiny. She found herself thinking how easy it would be to go along with his suggestion. To surrender to the ache deep inside her and have him take all her frustration away. All she had to do was smile—a quick, complicit smile—and that would be the only green light he needed.

And then what?

She swallowed. A mindless coupling with someone who’d made no secret of his contempt for her? An act which would inevitably leave him triumphant and her, what? Empty, that was what.

A lifetime of turning down sexual invitations meant that she knew exactly how to produce the kind of brisk smile which would destabilise the situation without causing a scene. But for once, it took a real effort.

‘I think not,’ she said, scooping up her pashmina from the sofa. ‘I have a self-protective instinct which warns me off intimacy with a certain kind of man, and I’m afraid you’re one of them. The things I require from you are purely practical, Niccolò. I need a list of craftsmen—painters and decorators—who you use on your properties and who I assume will be available to work for me—and to work very quickly if we’re to get this job in on time.’

The impatient wave of his hand told her that painters and decorators were of no interest to him. ‘Speak to Kirsty about it.’

‘I will.’ She hitched the strap of her bag further over her shoulder. ‘And if that’s everything—I’ll get going.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘You have your own car?’

Was he kidding? Didn’t he realise that car parking costs in London put motoring way beyond the reach of mere mortals? Alannah shook her head. ‘I always use public transport.’

‘Then I will take you. I insist.’ His eyes met hers with cool challenge. ‘Unless you’d prefer to travel by train on a freezing December night, rather than in the warm comfort of my car?’

‘You’re boxing me into a corner, Niccolò.’

‘I know I am. But you’ll find it’s a very comfortable box.’ He took his car keys from his jacket pocket. ‘Come.’

In the elevator, she kept her distance. Just as she kept her gaze trained on the flashing arrow as it took them down to the underground car park, where his car was waiting.

He punched her postcode into his satnav and didn’t say another word as they drove along the busy streets of Knightsbridge, where Christmas shoppers were crowding the frosty pavements. Alannah peered out of the window. Everywhere was bright with coloured lights and gifts and people looking at the seasonal displays in Harrods’s windows.

The car turned into Trafalgar Square and the famous Christmas tree loomed into view and suddenly Alannah felt the painful twist of her heart. It was funny how grief hit you when you least expected it—in a fierce wave which made your eyes grow all wet and salty. She remembered coming here with her mother, when they were waiting for the result of her biopsy. When standing looking up at a giant tree on an icy winter night had seemed like the perfect city outing. There’d been hardly any money in their purses, but they’d still had hope. Until a half-hour session with a man in a white coat had quashed that hope and they’d never been able to get it back again.

She blinked away the tears as the car began to speed towards West London, hoping that Niccolò’s concentration on the traffic meant he hadn’t noticed. He reached out to put some music on—something Italian and passionate, which filled the air and made her heart clench again, but this time with a mixture of pleasure and pain.

Closing her eyes, she let the powerful notes wash over her and when she opened them again the landscape had altered dramatically. The houses in this part of the city were much closer together and as Niccolò turned off the main road a few stray traces of garbage fluttered like ghosts along the pavement.

‘Is this where you live?’ he questioned.

She heard the faint incredulity in his voice and realised that this was exactly why she hadn’t wanted this lift. Because he will judge you. He will judge you and find you wanting, just as he’s always done. ‘That’s right,’ she said.

He killed the engine and turned to look at her, his dark features brooding in the shadowed light.

‘It’s not what I expected.’

Her question was light, almost coquettish. She wondered if he could tell she’d been practising saying it in her head. ‘And what did you expect?’

For a moment Niccolò didn’t answer, because once again she had confounded his expectations. He had imagined a pricey location—a fortified mansion flat bought on the proceeds of the money she’d earned from Stacked magazine. Or a cute little mews cottage in Holland Park. Somewhere brimming with the kind of wealthy men who might enjoy dabbling with a woman as beautiful as her.

But this…

The unmistakable signs of poverty were all around them. The rubbish on the pavement. A battered car with its wing-mirror missing. The shadowy group of youths in their hoodies, who stood watching their car with silent menace.

‘What happened to all your money?’ he questioned suddenly. ‘You must have earned—’

‘Stacks?’ she questioned pointedly.

His smile was brief as he acknowledged the pun. ‘A lot.’

She stared down at her handbag. ‘It was a short-lived career—it didn’t exactly provide me with a gold-plated pension.’

‘So what did you do with it?’

I paid for my mother’s medical bills. I chased a miracle which was never going to happen. I chased it until the pot was almost empty though the outcome hadn’t changed one bit. She shrugged, tempted to tell him that it was none of his business—but she sensed that here was a man who wouldn’t give up. Who would dig away until he had extracted everything he needed to know. She tried to keep her words light and flippant, but suddenly it wasn’t easy. ‘Oh, I frittered it all away. As you do.’

Niccolò looked at the unexpected tremble of her lips and frowned, because that sudden streak of vulnerability she was trying so hard to disguise was completely unexpected. Was she regretting the money she had squandered? Did she lay awake at night and wonder how the hell she had ended up in a place like this? He tried and failed to imagine how she fitted in here. Despite all her attempts to subdue her innate sensuality and tame her voluptuous appearance, she must still stand out like a lily tossed carelessly into a muddy gutter.

And suddenly he wanted to kiss her. The streetlight was casting an unworldly orange light over her creamy skin, so that she looked like a ripe peach just begging to be eaten. He felt temptation swelling up inside him, like a slow and insistent storm. Almost without thinking, he found himself reaching out to touch her cheek, wondering if it felt as velvety-soft as it appeared. And it did. Oh, God, it did. A whisper of longing licked over his skin.

‘What…what do you think you’re doing?’ she whispered.

‘You know damned well what I’m doing,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I’m giving into something which has always been there and which is refusing to die. Something which gets stronger each time we see each another. So why don’t we just give into it, Alannah—and see where it takes us?’

She knew it was coming. Of course she did. She’d been kissed by enough men to recognise the sudden roughening of his voice and opaque smoulder of his black eyes. But no man had ever kissed her the way Niccolò did.

Time slowed as he bent his face towards hers and she realised he was giving her enough time to stop him. But she didn’t. How could she when she wanted this so much? She just let him anchor her with the masterful slide of his hands as they captured the back of her head, before he crushed his lips down on hers.

Instantly, she moaned. It was ten long years since he’d kissed her and already she was on fire. She felt consumed by it. Powered by it. Need washed over her as she splayed her palms against his chest as his tongue licked its way into her mouth—her lips opened greedily, as if urging him to go deeper. She heard his responding murmur, as if her eagerness pleased him, and something made her bunch her hands into fists and drum them against his torso—resenting and wanting him all at the same time.

He raised his head, dark eyes burning into her like fire. But there were no subtle nuances to his voice now—just a mocking question in an accent which suddenly sounded harsh and very Sicilian. ‘Are you trying to hurt me, bella?’

‘I—yes! Yes!’ She wanted to hurt him first—before he had the chance to do it to her.

He gave a soft laugh—as if recognising his own power and exulting in it. ‘But I am not going to let you,’ he said softly. ‘We are going to give each other pleasure, not pain.’

Alannah’s head tipped back as he reached down to cup her breast through the heavy silk of her dress. And she let him. Actually, she did more than let him. Her breathless sighs encouraged him to go even further, and he did.

He kissed her neck as his hand crept down to alight on one stockinged knee. And wasn’t it shameful that she had parted her knees—praying he would move his hand higher to where the ache was growing unbearable? But he didn’t—at least, not at first. For a while he seemed content to tease her. To bring her to such a pitch of excitement that she squirmed with impatience—wriggling restlessly until at last he moved his hand to skate it lightly over her thigh. She heard him suck in a breath of approval as he encountered the bare skin above her stocking top and she shivered as she felt his fingers curl possessively over the goose-pimpled flesh.

‘I am pleased to see that despite the rather staid outfits you seem to favour, you still dress to tantalise underneath,’ he said. ‘And I need to undress you very quickly, before I go out of my mind with longing. I need to see that beautiful body for myself.’

His words killed it. Just like that. They shattered the spell he’d woven and wiped out all the desire—replacing it with a dawning horror of what she’d almost allowed to happen.

Allowed?

Who was she kidding? She might as well have presented herself to him in glittery paper all tied up with a gift ribbon. He’d given her a lift home and just assumed…assumed…

He’d assumed he could start treating her like a pin-up instead of a person. Somewhere along the way she had stopped being Alannah and had become a body he simply wanted to ogle. Why had she thought he was different from every other man?

‘What am I doing?’ she demanded, jerking away from him and lifting her fingertips to her lips in horror. ‘What am I thinking of?’

‘Oh, come on, Alannah.’ He began to tap his finger impatiently against the steering wheel. ‘We’re both a little too seasoned to play this kind of game, surely? You might just have got away with the outraged virgin scenario a decade ago, but not any more. I’m pretty sure your track record must be almost as extensive as mine. So why the sudden shutdown at exactly the wrong moment, when we both know we want it?’

It took everything she had for Alannah not to fly at him until she remembered that, in spite of everything, he was still her boss. She realised she couldn’t keep blaming him for leaping to such unflattering conclusions, because why wouldn’t he think she’d been around the block several times? Nice girls didn’t take off their clothes for the camera, did they? And nice girls didn’t part their legs for a man who didn’t respect them.

‘You might have a reputation as one of the world’s greatest lovers, Niccolò,’ she said, ‘but right now, it’s difficult to see why.’

She saw his brows knit together as he glowered at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

Grabbing the handle, she pushed open the car door and a blast of cold air came rushing inside, mercifully cooling her heated face. ‘Making out in the front of cars is what teenagers do,’ she bit out. ‘I thought you had a little bit more finesse than that. Most men at least offer dinner.’

CHAPTER FIVE

EVERY TIME NICCOLÒ closed his eyes he could imagine those lips lingering on a certain part of his anatomy. He could picture it with a clarity which was like a prolonged and exquisite torture. He gave a groan of frustration and slammed his fist into the pillow. Was Alannah Collins aware that she was driving him crazy with need?

Turning onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling. Of course she was. Her profession—if you could call it that—had been pandering to male fantasy. She must have learnt that men were turned on by stockings—and socks. By tousled hair and little-girl pouts. By big blue eyes and beautiful breasts.

Had she subsequently learnt as she’d grown older that teasing and concealment could be almost as much of a turn-on? That to a man used to having everything he wanted, even the idea of a woman refusing sex was enough to make his body burn with a hunger which was pretty close to unbearable. Did she often let men caress the bare and silky skin of her thigh and then push them away just when they were in tantalising reach of far more intimate contact?

Frustratedly running his fingers through his hair, he got out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

If she hadn’t been such a damned hypocrite when she’d slammed her way out of his car last night, then he wouldn’t be feeling this way. If she’d been honest enough to admit what she really wanted, he wouldn’t have woken up feeling aching and empty. She could have invited him in and turned those denim-blue eyes on him and let nature take its course. They could have spent the night together and he would have got her out of his system, once and for all.

He turned on the shower, welcoming the icy water which lashed over his heated skin.

True, her home hadn’t looked particularly inviting. It didn’t look big enough to accommodate much more than a single bed, let alone any degree of comfort. But that was okay. His mouth hardened. Mightn’t the sheer ordinariness of the environment have added a piquant layer of excitement to a situation he resented himself for wanting?

Agitatedly, he rubbed shampoo into his hair, thinking that she made him want to break every rule in the book and he didn’t like it. The women he dated were chosen as carefully as his suits and he didn’t do bad girls. His taste tended towards corporate bankers. Or lawyers. He liked them blonde and he liked them cool. He liked the kind of woman who never sweated…

Not like Alannah Collins. He swallowed as the water sluiced down over his heated skin. He could imagine her sweating. He closed his eyes and imagined her riding him—her long black hair damp with exertion as it swung around her luscious breasts. He turned off the shower, trying to convince himself that the experience would be fleeting and shallow. It would be like eating fast food after you’d been on a health kick. The first greasy mouthful would taste like heaven but by the time you’d eaten the last crumb, you’d be longing for something pure and simple.

So why not forget her?

He got ready for the office and spent the rest of the week trying to do just that. He didn’t go near Alekto’s apartment, just listened to daily progress reports from Kirsty. He kept himself busy, successfully bidding for a new-build a few blocks from the Pembroke in New York. He held a series of back-to-back meetings about his beach development in Uruguay; he lunched with a group of developers who were over from the Middle East—then took them to a nightclub until the early hours. Then he flew to Paris and had dinner with a beautiful Australian model he’d met at last year’s Melbourne Cup.

But Paris didn’t work and neither did the model. For once the magic of the city failed to cast its spell on him. Overnight it had surrendered to the monster which was Christmas and spread its glittering tentacles everywhere. The golden lights which were strung in the trees along the Champs Élysées seemed garish. The decorated tree in his hotel seemed like a giant monument to bad taste and the pile of faux-presents which rested at its base made his mouth harden with disdain. Even the famous shops were stuffed with seasonal reminders of reindeer and Santa, which marred their usual elegance.

And all this was underpinned by the disturbing fact that nothing was working; he couldn’t seem to get Alannah out of his mind. Even now. He realised that something about her was making him act out of character. There were plenty of other people whose style he liked, yet he had hired her without reference and only the most cursory of glances at her work. Governed by a need to possess her, he had ignored all reason and common sense and done something he’d sworn never to do.

He had taken a gamble on her.

He felt the icy finger of fear whispering over his spine.

He had taken a gamble on her and he never gambled.

He ordered his driver to take him to the towering block which rose up over Hyde Park. But for once he didn’t take pride in the futuristic building which had been his brainchild, and which had won all kinds of awards since its inception. All he could think about was the slow build of hunger which was burning away inside him and which was now refusing to be silenced.

His heart was thudding as he took the elevator up to the penthouse, his key-card quietly clicking the door open. Silently, he walked through the bare apartment, which smelt strongly of paint, and into the main reception room where he found Alannah perched on a stepladder, a tape measure in her hand.

His heart skipped a beat. She wore a loose, checked shirt and her hair was caught back in a ponytail. He didn’t know what he’d been planning to say but before he had a chance to say anything she turned round and saw him. The stepladder swayed and he walked across the room to steady it and some insane part of him wished it would topple properly, so that he could catch her in his arms and feel the soft crush of her breasts against him.

‘N-Niccolò,’ she said, her fingers curling around one of the ladder’s rungs.

‘Me,’ he agreed.

She licked her lips. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘Should I have rung to make an appointment?’

‘Of…of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘What can I do for you?’

His eyes narrowed. She was acting as if they were strangers—like two people who’d met briefly at a party. Had she forgotten the last time he’d seen her, when their mouths had been hot and hungry and they’d been itching to get inside each other’s clothes? Judging from the look on her face, it might as well have been a figment of his imagination. He forced himself to look around the room—as if he were remotely interested in what she was doing with it. ‘I thought I’d better see how work is progressing.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She began to clamber down the ladder, stuffing the tape measure into the pocket of her jeans. ‘I know it doesn’t look like very much at the moment, but it will all come together when everything’s in place. That…’ Her finger was shaking a little as she pointed. ‘That charcoal shade is a perfect backdrop for some of the paintings which Alekto is having shipped over from Greece.’

‘Good. What else?’ He began to walk through the apartment and she followed him, her canvas shoes squeaking a little on the polished wooden floors.

‘Here, in the study, I’ve used Aegean Almond as a colour base,’ she said. ‘I thought it was kind of appropriate.’

‘Aegean Almond?’ he echoed. ‘What kind of lunatic comes up with a name like that?’

‘You’d better not go into the bathroom, then,’ she warned, her lips twitching. ‘Because you’ll find Cigarette Smoke everywhere.’

‘There’s really a paint called Cigarette Smoke?’

‘I’m afraid there is.’

He started to laugh and Alannah found herself joining in, before hurriedly clamping her mouth shut. Because humour was dangerous and just because he’d been amused by something she’d said it didn’t mean he’d suddenly undergone a personality transplant. He had an agenda. A selfish agenda, which didn’t take any of her wishes into account and that was because he was a selfish man. Niccolò got what Niccolò wanted and it was vital she didn’t allow herself to be added to his long list of acquisitions.

She realised he was still looking at her.

‘So everything’s running according to schedule?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I’ve ordered velvet sofas and sourced lamps and smaller pieces of furniture.’

‘Good.’

Was that enough? she wondered. How much detail did he need to know to be convinced she was doing a good job? Because no matter what he thought about her past, he needed to know she wasn’t going to let him down. She cleared her throat. ‘And I’ve picked up some gorgeous stuff on the King’s Road.’

‘You’ve obviously got everything under control.’

‘I hope so. That is what you’re paying me for.’

Niccolò walked over to the window and stared out at the uninterrupted view of Hyde Park. The wintry trees were bare and the pewter sky seemed heavy with the threat of snow. It seemed as if his hunch about her ability had been right. It seemed she was talented, as well as beautiful.

And suddenly he realised he couldn’t keep taking his anger out on her. Who cared what kind of life she’d led? Who cared about anything except possessing her? Composing his face into the kind of expression which was usually guaranteed to get him exactly what he wanted, Niccolò smiled.

‘It looks perfect,’ he said. ‘You must let me buy you dinner.’

She shook her head. ‘Honestly, you don’t have to do that.’

‘No?’ He raised his eyebrows in mocking question. ‘The other night you seemed to imply you felt short-changed because I’d made a pass at you without jumping through the necessary social hoops first.’

‘That was different.’

‘How?’

She lifted her hand to fiddle unnecessarily with her ponytail. ‘I made the comment in response to a situation.’

‘A situation which won’t seem to go away.’ His black eyes lanced into her. ‘Unless something has changed and you’re going to deny that you want me?’

She sighed. ‘I don’t think I’m a good enough actress to do that, Niccolò. But wanting you doesn’t automatically mean that I’m going to do anything about it. You must have women wanting you every day of the week.’

‘But we’re not talking about other women. What if I just wanted the opportunity to redeem myself? To show you that I am really just a…what is it you say?’ He lifted his shoulders and his hands in an exaggerated gesture of incomprehension. ‘Ah, yes. A regular guy.’