The Virgin's Shock Baby

‘What if he tries to ravish you?’ Katie added, the battle she’d been waging for the last two hours—to stand between Megan and De Rossi’s super-human seduction skills—starting to wear on Megan’s already frazzled nerves.

De Rossi was due to arrive in less than five minutes and Katie’s misguided reading of the situation was the last thing Megan needed. But she would never tell Katie the truth. That the only thing standing between them and financial ruin was Megan’s mission to seduce De Rossi—not the other way around—because that would only make Katie worry more about Megan’s date in the lion’s den. And Megan was already panicking enough for both of them.

She’d spent most of her life shielding her sister, ever since the day she’d stood beside a nine-year-old Katie at their mother’s graveside and held her as her little sister shed real tears for a woman who had abandoned them.

She was not about to stop now.

But sometimes shielding Katie from the realities of life could be very trying. Megan poked the second earring into her earlobe with an unsteady hand and absorbed the sting, attempting to tune out Katie’s next offensive.

‘I can’t believe you won’t even let me meet him. All I want to do is make sure he knows not to mess with you.’ Katie stood defiantly behind her, every sinew in her slim, coltish body fraught with challenge and righteous determination. ‘At least promise me you won’t let him lure you back to his love nest on Central Park West.’

‘His what nest?’ Megan would have laughed at the term, if her heart hadn’t just jumped into her throat.

‘Don’t look like that.’ Katie rolled her eyes, frustrated. ‘That’s what they called it in Giselle Monroe’s piece in the Post. Didn’t you read it?’

‘No, I did not, and you shouldn’t have either. It’s salacious gossip.’ The last thing she needed to read was the model’s kiss-and-tell account of De Rossi’s sexual prowess when she was nervous enough already.

‘According to Giselle,’ Katie continued undeterred, ‘the guy’s insatiable in the sack. He can make a woman—’

‘Katie, for goodness’ sake, shut up!’ She swung round on the stool. ‘I didn’t read it, because I didn’t need to. This isn’t a proper date.’ Even if the memory of one look from the man was still giving her goosebumps a month after the fact. ‘Dad asked him to escort me. He may not even turn up.’ The hope that he might have forgotten the arrangement had guilt coalescing in her stomach to go with the panic.

She was Whittaker’s only hope. She’d promised to do this thing, even if the computer codes buried in her purse were burning a hole in her conscience.

The sound of the front door buzzer made them both jump.

‘So he’s not gonna show, huh?’ Katie said, looking triumphant.

Megan cursed under her breath, and stood to check out her reflection. The gown was sleek and simple in its elegance, the bias-cut satin snug enough to enhance her curves without offering them up on a platter. Or at least, that was what Annalise had insisted.

Diamonds sparkled in the thin straps that held up the bodice, which plunged low enough to entice but not low enough to give Megan an anxiety attack. Yet. A faux-fur wrap to hold off the night-time chill in late April, and four-inch heels—which were as high as she could go without risking a twisted ankle—an elaborate up-do that held her unruly hair in some kind of order, a five-hundred-dollar make-up session and the delicate diamond drop earrings completed the outfit. Annalise had told her the ensemble screamed sophistication and purpose, rather than panic and desperation.

Megan wasn’t so sure.

She heard the front door of the apartment being opened by their housekeeper, Lydia Brady, and the low murmur of a deep masculine voice.

Awareness rippled up her spine and she grasped her sister’s wrists. ‘Stay here, Katie, I’m warning you. This is going to be humiliating enough without you there making me feel even more self-conscious.’

Katie pulled her hands free, the spark of defiance disappearing for the first time in hours. ‘Why would it be humiliating?’

‘Because I’m not his type and he’s only taking me as a favour to Dad.’

And Dad expects me to seduce him. Somehow. And then commit a crime to save Whittaker’s.

‘What do you mean, you’re not his type?’ Katie’s gaze travelled over Megan’s outfit, the appreciation in her wide green eyes making Megan’s heart pound even harder. ‘You look absolutely stunning. Just like Mum. I wish I had at least a few of your curves.’ She flung her arms around Megan’s shoulders, holding her tight for a few precious seconds. ‘You’re going to knock his designer socks off, you silly moo,’ Katie whispered in her ear, before she drew back. Warmth suffused Megan.

Even when she was being a pain in the backside, Katie was Megan’s greatest cheerleader and her best friend.

‘Which is precisely why you need me there to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas,’ Katie added, in case Megan hadn’t figured that out already after the four-hour campaign. ‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to threaten him with my kick-boxing skills?’

‘You gave up kick-boxing after two sessions,’ Megan pointed out.

‘What if I threaten to macramé him to death instead, then?’ Katie offered—probably only half joking. ‘I did a killer macramé piece for my course.’

The chuckle that popped out of Megan’s mouth was part gratitude and part hysteria. Whatever happened with De Rossi, her life was likely to be irrevocably changed once tonight was over. Because she’d either be in his bed, or in a prison cell. Her sister’s silly joke helped to ground her, though, and confirm what she already knew: that protecting Katie and her dreams, and protecting Whittaker’s, were worth sacrificing her self-respect and throwing herself at De Rossi tonight.

All Megan had to do was figure out how to do that without having a nervous breakdown.

Lydia Brady stepped into the room. ‘Mr De Rossi has arrived, Megan.’ The older woman smiled. ‘You look beautiful, dear.’

‘Thank you, Lydia.’ Nerves screamed across her bare shoulders, and the hot brick in her stomach sank lower.

Letting go of her sister’s hands, she walked towards the dressing-room door, affecting the expression she had practised in the mirror for hours last night. Polite, confident and, she hoped, at least a little alluring.

Her heels echoed on the marble flooring as she made her way down the corridor, but as she turned into the apartment’s plush lobby area all the air seized in her lungs and her steps faltered.

Dario De Rossi looked up from adjusting his cuffs, his crystal-blue eyes locking on her face like a tractor beam, and sending a sizzle of electric energy through her body.

The man looked devastating in a tux. Tall and broad, his powerful body only made more intimidating by the classic black tailoring, which emphasised the magnificent width of his shoulders, the leanness of his waist and the length of his legs.

How tall was he? At least three inches above her father’s six feet.

She took a careful breath and forced herself to carry on walking, grateful her wrap covered her cleavage when the assessing gaze roamed down, setting off a series of mini explosions and making her insides grow hot.

‘Buonasera, Megan.’

His English was so perfect, with only the slightest hint of his Italian heritage, it felt strangely intimate to have him greet her in his native language. The way the deep husky rumble of his voice skated across already oversensitive flesh, though, was not as disturbing as the dark flash of hunger in his eyes as she drew level.

‘Buonasera,’ she said, answering him in Italian automatically.

He lifted her fingers to his mouth, startling her, and pressed his lips to the knuckles.

The gesture should have been polite, gallant even, but for the way his thumb slid across her palm as he lowered her hand, sending arrows of sensation darting up her arm, and into her torso.

She tugged her hand out of his grasp, shocked by her response, as his gaze roamed up to her hair.

‘The colour is natural?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, disconcerted by the approval shining in his eyes.

His firm lips lifted in a smile that managed to be both amused and predatory, as if he were a panther, toying with his prey.

‘I hope I did not offend you,’ he said, the intimacy of his gaze contradicting his apology. The bright blue gaze then dipped to her toes and back, sending seismic ripples over her skin and igniting every pulse point like a firework.

‘Relax, cara mia.’ The rough chuckle scraped across her nerve-endings.

A fiery blush crept up her neck. Was he mocking her?

She looked down at her hands, and forced her fingers to release their death grip on the diamond-encrusted purse. Annalise had told her that looking like a lamb being led to slaughter would not entice any man.

Breathe. Remember to breathe. Breathing is good.

But when she raised her head, he was doing that laser-beam thing again, as if he could see right through her—to the soon-to-be felon beneath.

‘I’m sorry, I’m tired,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ve had a very busy day.’

Could she actually sound any more inane? Where was all the scintillating conversation about his business acquisitions that she had been working on for hours?

‘Doing what?’ he asked.

‘Shopping for this dress, mostly. And getting my hair and nails and stuff done,’ she replied honestly. Until today she’d had no idea that trawling the designer boutiques of the Upper East Side and spending four hours getting waxed and plucked and pampered to within an inch of her life was more exhausting than hiking up Kilimanjaro.

‘Have you, now?’ he said, the wry tone making her realise the statement made her sound like a spoilt debutante fishing for a compliment.

Humiliation washed over her.

She knew from the articles she’d devoured about him in the last twenty-four hours that he had been born into one of Rome’s most notorious slums. He had to know what true exhaustion was. Everything else about his origins was sketchy, something he refused to talk to the press about, but that simple nugget of information had only intimidated her more. She could well imagine how hard De Rossi must have fought to escape his origins—and how hard he would fight now to keep hold of what he had. And what he wanted to acquire.

Her skin burned, her nipples tightening as his gaze met hers. The cool blue was not as icy as she remembered it from their first brief meeting. His lips quirked.

‘It was time and money well spent,’ he said, the casual compliment making the flush flare across her collarbone.

Then, to her astonishment, he lifted a hand and tucked his forefinger under her chin. The soft brush of the knuckle was like a zap of electricity, firing down to her core as he lifted her face.

She stiffened, stunned by the enormity of her response to a simple touch. She struggled not to jerk her head away, to submit to the proprietorial caress, despite being brutally aware of the heat now blazing on her cheeks.

What was going on here? Because the amused quirk on his lips had disappeared. Why was he looking at her so intently?

He drew his thumb across her bottom lip.

‘You are very beautiful in your own unique way,’ he said, his gaze lifting to her chignon. ‘Especially that hair.’

He sounded sincere. Why did that make tonight seem all the more terrifying?

She forced a smile, trying desperately to pretend she wasn’t burning up inside. But she couldn’t resist the involuntary flick of her tongue to moisten lips dried to parchment. He focused on her mouth, and a soft indrawn breath escaped her at the hunger in his eyes.

‘The colour reminds me of a naked flame,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you’re as fiery in bed?’

The heat swelling in her abdomen settled uncomfortably between her legs at the boldly sexual comment. She ought to say something provocative back.

But she didn’t feel provocative, she felt stunned. And hopelessly aroused. And completely out of her depth. Already.

Dario De Rossi wanted her. And while that should have been very good news, because she was supposed to be seducing him, the power dynamic did not feel as if it was in her favour. Surely her thighs wouldn’t be trembling under that hard, heated gaze if it were? She searched her mind for something to say that wouldn’t clue him in to how inexperienced she was.

Annalise had told her in no uncertain terms that De Rossi would not find her gaucheness appealing.

Think, Megan, think. What would Mata Hari do?

‘That’s for me to know,’ she finally managed, allowing the desire her body couldn’t seem to control to show in her voice. ‘And for you to find out, if you dare.’

‘There’s not much I wouldn’t dare, cara,’ he said, the cynical edge in his tone disturbingly compelling.

His hand dropped, and she couldn’t prevent the tiny sob as her body softened in relief.

She was playing a very dangerous game. But she had no choice. She had to brazen this out, pretend she was much more knowing and experienced than she actually was.

Sweeping his hand out in front of him, he smiled, and she became a little fixated on those firm sensual lips.

‘Let’s get you to the ball, Cinderella.’

She pushed out a strained laugh and walked past him, only to tense as his hand settled on the base of her spine. Sensation flashed down to her bottom, but she carried on walking, acting as if the feel of his hand wasn’t burning through her clothing.

The ride down in the lift was excruciating, the deceptively light touch driving her insane. He kept his palm there the whole time, guiding her where he wanted her to go, and not letting her stray more than an inch from his side with the subtlest of gestures. But even so, the heat grew.

As they walked out of the apartment building, past the doorman, her nerves were screaming, the controlling pressure so light it was torture not to stretch against his hold. Her body waged a battle between wanting to kick off her heels and race away from him down the street, while another, much more elemental urge had her longing to ease closer to him and let the heat of his body overwhelm her.

The night chill caught her hair, making the tendrils the stylist had spent an hour carefully teasing out of the chignon dance against her neck. She shivered, the skin there already oversensitised by the feel of his gaze boring into her from behind.

The sleek black limousine was parked at the kerb, a man in a dark suit and a cap waiting for them. The chauffeur opened the door and tipped his hat, giving her a polite smile.

She eased into the shadowed interior, the split in the long skirt of her dress pushing open to reveal her thigh almost up to the hip.

She heard a gruff intake of breath. And had to tamp down on the desire to escape out of the other side of the vehicle. The cool leather pushed against the backs of her knees through the dress.

‘The guy’s insatiable in the sack...’

‘What if he tries to ravish you?’

Katie’s foolish observations came back to haunt her as De Rossi folded his big body into the seat beside her. His wide shoulders filled up the opposite side of the car and made the spacious, luxury black leather interior feel unbearably cramped and claustrophobic.

He leant across her to grasp the seat belt. She pulled back, his face inches from hers, his scent surrounding her. Sandalwood and musk and man. But as his eyes met hers he only smiled again and pulled the seat belt down to click it into place, his knuckles brushing her hip.

‘Why are you so skittish, Megan?’ he asked.

‘I’m just a little nervous, Mr De Rossi,’ she blurted out, then glanced around the car searching for a plausible excuse. She was supposed to be flirting with him, making him think she was available for a quick fling, not quaking like someone standing on a fault line. ‘About the ball. I don’t want to let my father or the company down. It’s my first time representing them at such a prestigious event.’ Which was actually true; ordinarily that responsibility alone would be reason enough for her nerves.

The warm proprietorial palm settled over her leg, and gave her knee a quick squeeze, touching her again in a way that made her feel owned.

‘My name is Dario.’ His jaw clenched and she noticed the bunched muscle, twitching. Was it possible she was affecting him as much as he was affecting her?

The thought thrilled her on some visceral level, but disturbed her more.

The possibility of playing him at his own game was almost as terrifying as the endorphins careering through her for the first time in her life.

‘We are on a date, remember,’ he murmured.

‘Thank you for agreeing to escort me,’ she said, finally remembering her manners. ‘It was nice of you.’

‘Nice?’ He seemed amused and surprised by the suggestion. ‘Not many women have accused me of that.’

She could well imagine. ‘My father really appreciated you doing us this favour.’ More than De Rossi would ever know. Hopefully.

‘There is nothing to appreciate,’ he said, cryptically. ‘I only do favours when I expect something in return.’

‘What do you expect from me?’ she said, then realised how suggestive it sounded a moment too late. ‘I don’t mean...’ she stumbled. ‘I just...’

‘I expect nothing from you, Megan.’ He cut into her rambling denials with the skill and precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. ‘I did this favour for your father.’

Those staggeringly blue eyes studied her, the knowledge in them unnerving her even more. Sensation skittered down her spine, making her breath seize in her lungs, the car’s interior now devoid of oxygen. Did he know the real reason her father had asked him to escort her tonight? Was this charade already doomed to failure?

‘Don’t look so terrified, cara,’ he said, and she tried to school her features not to give away her fear.

‘I promise not to bite. Unless you want me to,’ he said, before touching the intercom button to inform the driver to proceed.

Pinpricks rioted over her skin as the car whisked away from the kerb and she imagined those straight white teeth nipping at all her most sensitive places.

She forced a smile, attempting to shake off the sensual fog he seemed to weave around her so effortlessly.

This was going to be the longest night of her life. Her physical reaction to him was too intense, too overwhelming. How was she supposed to survive an evening in his company without telling him every one of her secrets?

CHAPTER TWO

DARIO DE ROSSI WATCHED AS his date finally appeared from the bathroom on the far side of the ballroom. That was the third time in the last hour that she’d deserted him to go to the powder room. And freshen up, as she’d put it.

She didn’t need freshening up. Her dewy skin was lightly flushed, the colour riding high on those apple cheeks, on the rare occasions when she’d been close enough for him actually to see her face. And when she wasn’t in the powder room, she was engaged in the most vacuous of conversations with everyone but him, her light breathy laughter making every pulse in his body stand on high alert.

She was not what he had expected.

He had known, of course, the second that Lloyd Whittaker had approached him in the club yesterday morning and asked him to escort his daughter to the ball, that the request was part of the man’s last-ditch attempt to save his company. The fool had finally realised who was buying up his stock and had probably thought throwing his daughter at Dario would soften the blow. It wouldn’t be the first time a business rival had believed that he could manipulate Dario through his enjoyment of the opposite sex—or believed the garbage written about his love life in the tabloids. Giselle’s recent hissy fit in The Post hadn’t helped in that regard.

It also certainly wouldn’t be the first time a powerful man had used and degraded a woman he was supposed to love and protect.

The brutal flash of memory had his gut twisting sharply. He took a sip from the bottle of Italian lager the hosts had imported especially for him and waited for the sensation to pass, while he watched Megan Whittaker make her way towards him.

She took the most circuitous route through the crowd, he noted, stopping to talk to a series of her father’s acquaintances, every one of whom, Dario observed as his fist plunged into the pocket of his trousers, seemed to think it was okay to look down her cleavage.

The dress—plunging low enough at the neckline to leave not nearly enough to the imagination—had made his heart slam into his throat and dried up every molecule of saliva in his mouth when she’d walked down the hallway of her apartment. And quite literally taken his breath away when she’d eased onto the seat of the limousine and revealed a mile of toned, tanned thigh. Which had to be an optical illusion, because the woman, despite all those impressive curves, didn’t even reach to his collarbone in her ice-pick heels.

He downed the last of the beer, and dumped the empty bottle on a passing waiter’s tray, deciding that he’d let Megan off the leash long enough.

He’d only agreed to this date out of curiosity. Because he was bored. He’d wanted to see what foolishness Whittaker had planned—especially as he had remembered the daughter from a tedious event a month ago that he’d attended with Giselle. Strangely he had remembered her eyes, that deep intense green had captivated him, but only for a moment, before she’d ducked her head. She’d avoided him for the rest of the evening. So he’d found it amusing that Whittaker had decided to push her into his path tonight. To do what exactly? Seduce him into releasing his stranglehold on a company her old man had been running into the ground for years?

The idea was so preposterous he had been convinced it couldn’t actually be true. That such an apparently inexperienced girl should be used for such a purpose seemed beyond even Whittaker’s ability to mismanage the situation. But he’d decided to play the scenario out, mostly for his own entertainment. He’d had no date for the ball, Megan Whittaker had already intrigued him, and he would enjoy proving that he was not the barbarian her father obviously assumed him to be. He was perfectly capable of resisting the charms of any woman—even if he hadn’t had one in his bed for over a month.

But then his date had surprised him. Stunned him even. And he didn’t like to be surprised, much less stunned. She was nervous, yes, and had an artlessness about her, which might have been why he had considered her so inexperienced a month ago, but beneath that was an awareness, a physical response to him that was so intense and unguarded it had done a great deal more than simply captivate or intrigue him.

He didn’t like it. He hadn’t expected to want her. Or certainly not this much.

But now he had to decide what to do about it.

If Whittaker had sent her on some cock-eyed mission to seduce him, he wasn’t about to take advantage of that. But on the other hand, if her response to him was genuine, why shouldn’t they enjoy each other for an evening? She couldn’t possibly be that inexperienced. She was twenty-four, well-travelled, and she’d dated at university in the UK, according to the background check he’d had done by his friend Jared Caine, the owner of Caine Securities. And he’d felt the way she’d stretched against the palm he’d rested on the slope of her back as they’d left her apartment—like a cat desperate to be stroked.

She wasn’t an accomplished flirt, but her instinctive response to a simple touch suggested a rare chemistry. What if she was as wild and vibrant as that russet-coloured hair if he got her into bed?

He hadn’t had such a basic reaction to a woman in years, maybe never. He liked sex, he was good at it, but something about Megan had sunk claws into his gut, tearing at his self-control, which he was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.

He’d sensed her nervousness in the car, so he’d backed off when they’d arrived at the ball, deciding to observe her, and give himself time to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do about the driving need inside him.