The Virgin's Shock Baby

But that had obviously been a mistake, because all it was doing was frustrating him more. Truth was, he hadn’t expected the avoidance tactics, but as he watched her pause to strike up a conversation with Garson Charters, the senile old judge who seemed to be as fixated on his date’s cleavage as every other man in the place, Dario knew that was exactly what her frequent trips to the powder room were about. She was wary of him, not all that surprising if her father had told her to come on to him.

The conniving old bastard probably expected her to wheedle information out of him about their business dealings.

So now he had two choices: he could escort her home, or play with the fire between them regardless of her father’s ulterior motives. Whatever happened, though, backing off wasn’t an option, because it went against every one of his natural—and a few unnatural—instincts.

He heard the string orchestra in the adjoining ballroom start up a waltz as he marched through the throng of guests sipping champagne and whispering loudly, and made a beeline for his date.

Her head popped up as he approached, almost as if she had a radar ready to alert her to his presence at a ten-metre radius. Her gaze locked on his for a millisecond and then flicked away, but not before he saw the jolt of awareness cross her features.

Her hunger was as real as his.

She said something to the elderly judge, who still had his beady eyes focused on her cleavage, then began to edge past the guy, heading back towards the bathroom.

No way, not this time.

He caught up with her in a few strides and hooked her wrist, drawing her to a halt. ‘Not so fast, cara. Where are you going?’

The colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes widening like those of a startled deer. The smoky perfection of her make-up and the hint of glitter on her eyelids did nothing to mask the unguarded sparkle of awareness in the emerald-green gaze.

‘Hi, Dario,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I think I left something in the restroom.’

‘What did you leave in the restroom?’

She scraped her teeth over her full bottom lip, for less than a second, but it sent a shot of heat straight to his crotch.

‘Um...my...’ She paused, obviously casting around for something.

Unlike her father, she wasn’t an accomplished liar.

He stowed the thought. She might be Whittaker’s daughter, but he’d seen little evidence this evening of any deviousness on Megan’s part. She couldn’t even seem to flirt with any degree of sophistication—her desire for him as blatant as her nerves whenever he got within a few feet of her. He could feel the slight tremors in her arm and the pounding beat of her pulse beneath the fingers he had on her wrist.

‘Whatever it is, it will be fine in the restroom until after this dance,’ he said, linking his fingers with hers as he made his way towards the dance floor in the adjacent ballroom.

She followed behind him as they weaved their way through the crowd, her reluctance palpable. Almost as palpable as the quiver of reaction in her fingers. He clasped her hand harder, not sure why he was seeking to reassure her.

‘What dance?’ she gasped. The confusion in her voice was almost as much of a turn-on as the tremor in her fingers.

He drew her into the ballroom and swung her into the crowd, deftly joining the other dancers as he lifted her arm high and then placed his other hand at the dip of her waist. ‘This dance.’

She matched her steps to his instinctively. He gave her waist a light squeeze, leading her effortlessly into the turn, and dragged her closer. ‘Put your hand on my shoulder, Megan,’ he ordered, pulling her easily into his body, until the length of her pressed against him from shoulder to hip. Those impressive breasts plumped up against his chest.

She did as she was told.

He swallowed around the renewed jolt of lust, willing his crotch to behave itself. At least until they were off the dance floor and he could get her somewhere private. His decision had been made.

Playing with fire it is, then.

CHAPTER THREE

MEGAN WAS IN TROUBLE. In big, broad, six-foot-three trouble. And she didn’t have any viable strategies left to get her out of trouble.

Because her first and only strategy, of hiding in the bathroom until she came up with a better strategy, had just gone down in flames, even though De Rossi had been surprisingly co-operative at first.

But now that strategy had crashed and burned. And she was far too aware of him to come up with another. The deliberate beats of the waltz reverberated in her ears, the sprinkle of light from the chandeliers dazzling her as he swung her around with practised ease.

With his body plastered against hers, she felt overwhelmed by the heat coming off him, the bunch and flex of his shoulder muscles as she clung to the fabric of his tuxedo; and the flare of arousal in his darkened pupils—all proof she wasn’t the only one caught in this maelstrom.

His big body surrounded her, his heady scent frying the few functioning brain cells she had left and sending her hormones into meltdown. She could hardly breathe, let alone think.

The hard planes of his chest pressed against her breast as he whisked her round again. And she stumbled. His muscular forearm braced across her back, lifting her off the floor for a beat.

‘Steady,’ he murmured against her hair as her heels clicked down on the polished parquet. ‘Follow my lead.’

She surrendered as he propelled her round the dance floor, past the envious stares of the women around her. He looked magnificent, lean and graceful in the tuxedo but with that air of raw, rugged masculinity that made the other men stand back.

She felt light-headed, her caution and control obliterated under the tractor-beam gaze she’d felt on her all evening, even when she was busy scurrying off to the bathroom for the umpteenth time.

The music swirled around them, the twinkle of light above them as they weaved in and out of the other dancers disorientating her. It was as if she were in the heart of a kaleidoscope, the colour and light dazzling her and leaving her dazed. Every inch of her skin stretched tight over her bones, so that she could feel each millimetre that touched his: the controlling press of his large palm on her hip, the rise and fall of his breathing, slow and steady against her own ragged pants; the thud of her heart, audible above the glide of cello strings marking the beat.

At last the music ended and he came to a halt. She stepped back as he let her go. Grateful for the space, even if his scent still enveloped her.

‘You dance very well.’ She forced the words out. Wondering if inane chatter might be a viable strategy.

‘Do you wish to leave?’ he replied.

Obviously not.

‘Yes.’ The word popped out on a breathless sigh.

He took her hand to lead her off the dance floor. A few people tried to waylay them, but he marched past as if he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he hadn’t, but she had. She felt as if she had a sign on her forehead—‘woman being claimed’.

Her father’s suggestion came back to haunt her. He’d wanted her to seduce this man, and she’d agreed to try, but why did what was happening now feel as if it had nothing to do with her father, or Whittaker’s, or even rescuing Katie’s dreams?

She wanted De Rossi for herself. No one else.

Her pulse battered her collarbone, her fingers clasped tightly in his rough palm, the prickle of awareness shooting all over her body. He paused briefly to pick up their coats from the cloakroom attendant at the entrance to the elaborate Westchester town house where the ball was held.

The chauffeur-driven car was waiting at the kerb as they descended the steps. Megan’s heels clicked on the paving stones like gunshots, shooting down the last of her caution and control.

Dario didn’t wait for the driver but pulled the door open himself. The dark interior beckoned, but she held back, scared to take the next step.

If she entered the car, this man would be her first real lover. And while that hadn’t felt like an event of any significance up to this second, it felt significant now. Obviously this was just lust, some pheromonal trick her body was playing on her. She wasn’t a hothead like Katie, and she wasn’t a romantic either. She didn’t need the conceit of hearts and flowers to justify a purely physical urge. But she’d never had this urge with any other man. And because of that, she couldn’t do this thing while there was still so much deception between them.

‘Get in the car, Megan,’ he murmured, his voice deep with purpose. ‘Or I’m liable to do something that is going to get us both arrested.’

She turned to find herself surrounded by him again, his arm braced against the roof of the car, her back flush against the door frame; she could feel the thick ridge touching her belly through their clothing.

‘I can’t... I have to tell you something first.’

‘If it’s about your father, and the reason he set up this date, don’t bother. I already know.’

‘You do?’ She pressed a palm to his chest, shock overlaid with bone-deep relief.

The clatter of his heartbeat through the starched linen felt like a validation, silencing the cacophony of objections in her mind. He was as blown away by their chemistry as she was. That was all that mattered, surely? If he knew about her father’s plan, this wasn’t seedy, or underhand, or unethical. It was nothing more than two healthy adults fulfilling a need.

He nodded, his dark hair shining black in the streetlamp. ‘Tell me, are you here for him, for his company, or for me?’

‘I...’

For me. I’m here for me.

But even as the truth rang in her head, she couldn’t voice it. Paralysed by words whispering across her consciousness from another April night, spiced with the juniper scent of gin and selfishness, the words her mother had whispered to her before she left. The last words her mother had ever spoken to her.

‘I have to leave with him, baby. He makes Mummy so happy. Daddy will understand eventually.’

‘I... I can’t,’ she finally blurted out.

She didn’t want to be like her mother, she couldn’t be. Maybe she had the same biological urges, urges she’d tried to deny for so long, but she couldn’t sleep with her father’s enemy and do nothing to try to save him.

‘Why can’t you?’ De Rossi asked.

‘Because it would kill my father if you destroyed Whittaker’s.’

The dark scowl on Dario’s face would have been frightening, if she still had some control of her faculties. Instead it only seemed to spike the fire in her blood. Would a man as ruthless in business as Dario consider changing his mind? Would he stop his pursuit of her father’s company for her? Did he want her that much?

‘I promise you, I have no intention of destroying your father’s company.’ He ground the words out.

She tried to control the foolish spurt of emotion at the concession. But she couldn’t help it. As smart and sensible and grounded as she had always been about life and business, and as aware as she was of De Rossi’s ruthlessness, and his cynicism, she was still moved that he would give her this, because she’d asked it of him.

‘Grazie,’ she said.

His brow quirked, then his lips tipped up in a feral smile that should have been terrifying but was instead terrifyingly exciting.

‘Don’t thank me yet.’ He gave her a firm pat on the backside. ‘Now get in the car.’

She laughed, she actually laughed, as she scrambled inside. All the stresses and strains of the last twenty-four hours floated off into the Manhattan night as the car sped through the evening traffic towards his home—his love nest—on Central Park West.

Whittaker’s would be saved. Her father could stop freaking out about losing the company that had been in their family for generations and she could have this night of erotic exploration with a man who made her blood bubble and fizz beneath her skin, without a single regret.

It took ten minutes to drive through the moonlit park, a few hardy and fearless joggers still peppering the well-lit streets as they passed Belvedere Castle’s fairy-tale turrets. Megan felt almost as fearless as those intrepid joggers when the car drew to a stop and Dario got out. He hadn’t spoken during the journey, and neither had she. But the fever of anticipation stirring her blood made her fingers shake as he helped her out of the car.

‘So this is your love nest?’ she said.

‘My what?’ he asked as she tilted her head to take in the two towers of the art deco building, the ornate and opulent architecture a luxury statement from a bygone era.

But the laugh at his puzzled expression got trapped in her throat as he escorted her into the building, past the doorman and a receptionist, until he reached the antique lift. The intricate iron filigree gates opened as the uniformed operator beckoned them inside.

‘Good evening, Mr De Rossi.’ The man in his late-fifties tipped his hat at Megan. ‘Miss.’

‘Buonasera, Rick.’ Dario’s tone was clipped, his hand gripping hers so tightly she could feel her pulse punching. ‘This is Megan Whittaker.’

‘Nice to meet you, Rick,’ she said, her voice distressingly husky. Heat scorched her neck. How many other late-night lovers had Rick been introduced to on their way up to Dario’s love nest?

The term felt quaint instead of romantic—which was for the best, she decided. She wasn’t here to make love, but to have sex for the first time.

Suddenly the enormity of what they were about to do occurred to her. They hadn’t even kissed yet. What would that firm sensual mouth feel like on hers? How would his body look naked? She assessed the width of his shoulders in the perfectly tailored designer coat. He was a well-built guy; what if all of him was as generously proportioned? Would it hurt?

Should she tell him she’d never actually gone all the way before?

Her pulse rabbited against her collarbone as she watched the gold arrow above their heads swing in an arc signalling the floors.

Despite the antique design, the lift whisked them up to the twenty-sixth floor without a single creak. Too soon, and yet not soon enough. Dario bid the operator goodnight and led her into a palatial lobby area. Fresh flowers stood on a side table, the only touch of softness against the sleek modern lines.

Shrugging off his coat, he dumped it on an armchair, then lifted her wrap off her shoulders. Despite the warmth pumping out of a central air system, she shivered.

Callused hands settled on her bare shoulders and he turned her to face him.

His handsome face, rigid with desire, should have frightened her, at least a little bit. But somehow it felt compelling, for him to want her so much. His thumbs glided over her collarbone. His fingers curled around her nape with exquisite tenderness. And trapped her in place. Then his lips. Firm, sensual, and unapologetic, slanted across hers, triggering a tsunami of sensation.

Her breath got trapped somewhere around her solar plexus. The hard, unyielding line of his body imprinted itself on her curves, making her want to yield. Instead of demanding or devouring, his lips were coaxing, gentle, until her mouth opened on a huff and his tongue plundered.

He explored, exploited, taking control of the kiss. Shivers of awareness reverberated in her core, then his fingers fisted in her hair to angle her face so he could go deeper, take more. Her heart beat violently against her ribcage, like the wings of a trapped bird trying to escape. She plastered herself against him, absorbing the heat of his body, and kissed him back, her tongue darting out to duel with his. The sudden feeling of weightlessness was as terrifying as the desperate flare of longing, the shocking well of desire surging up her torso to obliterate everything but the sight, the sound, the taste of him. Earthy and raw and so staggeringly real.

The kiss could only have lasted for a few moments, but still she staggered, unsteady on her feet, when he lifted his head abruptly. His brows lifted, his eyes flaring hot, and she wondered for a second if he were as stunned as she was by the intensity of feeling that had passed between them.

Taking her hand, he led her down the corridor and into a huge, double-height room. A majestic sweep of stairs led to a mezzanine level, the deep leather sofas along the back wall the only furnishings. Huge floor-to-ceiling leaded windows looked out over the dark expanse of Central Park, the lake and the twinkle of lights from the East Side skyline beyond.

She could see her own reflection in the mullioned glass, her breath heaving in and out, her satin curves shimmering in the light from the hallway as he stood behind her. He glided his thumbs under the gown’s diamanté straps.

‘Yes?’ The low question shattered the silence.

‘Yes,’ she managed around the thickening in her throat.

He eased the straps over her shoulder blades. The rasp of the gown’s zip seemed deafening. Satin caught at her waist, and then slid down to pool around her feet, revealing the lacy royal-blue lingerie Annalise had insisted on buying to go with the gown.

Her breath hitched painfully as she heard the click of her bra releasing. He dragged the lace straps off her shoulders to slide down her arms. Her heavy breasts were released from their confinement. His lips caressed her neck, suckling on the pulse point as his hands covered the swollen mounds, his fingers circling her nipples.

Sensation tugged at her sex as he rolled the rigid peaks between thumb and forefinger, plucking then squeezing. Her knees went liquid, and a strong arm banded around her waist to hold her up. Her pale flesh shone white against his darkness.

His lips caressed the side of her neck as he growled. ‘I can’t wait any longer to have you.’

She pulled away and turned to face him. Her pulse was going berserk. She dragged a precious lungful of air into her lungs and tasted him, the subtle aroma of sandalwood and clean laundry detergent.

His thumb skimmed her cheek. The gentle touch had all her nerve-endings springing to high alert.

No man had ever looked at her with such hunger in his eyes. She absorbed the heat and intensity and it felt like a benediction, a celebration of everything she was that she had always been terrified to admit to.

The heat between her legs melted into a puddle of need, making her skin sensitive and her senses alert to the scent and taste of him, the rough sound of his breathing.

She squeezed her thighs together. ‘Neither can I,’ she said.

* * *

Dario stared at the girl in front of him—an artless seductress whose acute awareness of his touch had been torturing him all evening.

He had become spellbound by his own lust. He’d never wanted a woman this much, so much he wasn’t sure he could be gentle—and that frightened him. He could actually read every one of her emotions as they flitted across her face, her attempts to wrestle them under control almost as bewitching as the hard peaks of her breasts, which begged for his mouth.

Need coiled hard in his gut, the pounding in his crotch unbearable.

He cupped her breast. She jolted but didn’t draw away.

‘Are you sure, cara?’ He wanted no lies or obligations between them. He’d promised not to destroy her father’s company. But it had never been his intention to destroy it, only to take it from the man...tonight, when the final deal with the last of Whittaker’s shareholders went through at midnight.

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

He threaded his fingers in her hair, loosening the up-do. As the soft, silky strands teased his fingertips, her scent curled around him, fresh and vivid, and heat powered through his body. Her eyes widened, her breathing coming in harsh pants now. And he knew she felt it too, that tug of yearning, the driving need to finish what they’d started.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, mesmerising him, and calling to every one of his baser instincts, instincts he’d spent a lifetime trying to control.

Need overwhelmed him as he lifted her into his arms. Placing her on the couch, he lowered his head, unable to resist the pull of that lush mouth a moment longer.

He heard the soft gasp, tasted her excitement and her trepidation. It could only be a trick of the night, this veneer of innocence. No woman could be innocent and drive him this insane, but even so he enjoyed the challenge as he coaxed and cajoled, tempting her with his tongue.

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