Affairs Of The Heart: The Italian Boss's Secret Child

He turned his face back to hers, the line of his mouth grim, tension replacing the liquid heat she’d felt within his grasp.

‘I have to take a phone call.’

His arms continued to surround her and he stared at her as if he was wavering between the phone call and the woman in his arms. ‘I’ll be back. Ten minutes max.’ He hesitated. ‘Maybe twenty.’

She looked up at him, his face so close to her own, and she knew she would wait forever if it meant feeling like this again. Then he dipped his head and his lips brushed hers, so gently that his breath was as much a part of the kiss, as much a part of the sensation, as his lips.

‘So beautiful,’ he whispered, his voice suddenly rougher. ‘Wait for me.’ He smiled and let her go.

And then he was gone.

It was like being in a vacuum. Damien had gone, all too quickly, and she felt cold, suddenly bereft of his heat. But he’d be back. He’d promised he’d be back. And that knowledge started the warmth pooling inside her all over again.

For a moment longer she stood, all by herself, in the centre of the crowded dance floor, couples jostling for space all around until she realised she had to move.

Ten minutes, he’d said. Maybe twenty. Where should she wait for him? How would he find her?

She made her way to the bar, ordered a mineral water and held the iced glass to her cheeks, trying to think about the time, trying not to think about the time. How many minutes now—five?—ten? She wanted to be back in his arms and every minute he was away felt like for ever.

The band finished its set and the dancers dispersed as someone took over the microphone. A stand-up comic. Good. At least that might take her mind off the time.

Damien cursed, loud and emphatic, before turning the microphone on the speaker telephone back up. It was worse than he’d thought. Enid sat nearby, armed with pen and paper and tactfully ignoring his comments, her delicately made-up white face giving nothing away.

He raked a hand through his hair, waiting for someone to pick up, snagging it on the mask. He tore it off, flinging it down on the desk of the makeshift office. It was actually a storeroom but with her usual efficient style Enid had already organised a couple of chairs, a phone and a fax machine. He didn’t need a computer—this was no time for email. He wanted action.

Of all the times for Delucatek’s United Kingdom agent to collapse. The news had been splashed in London’s Saturday papers and now there were a hundred clients all screaming for help. Okay, these things happened in business. He’d dealt with worse before and no doubt there’d be worse to come, but why did it have to be tonight? Why now? Already he’d been here forty minutes but he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d cornered his agent’s CEO. There were plenty of questions he wanted to ask him.

He picked up a pencil, tapping it furiously on the table as he waited.

Strains of laughter drifted in from the nearby auditorium and his mind wandered back to the ball and the woman he’d left behind. She was waiting for him. Or at least he hoped she was.

He could still feel her in his arms, the magic way her body floated into his, matching his moves and the music so that her sweet body flowed, her curves swaying to the rhythm. How he’d like to feel that body sway to a different rhythm, how he’d like to feel her body dance to a different music, a music they would make together. His body ached just thinking about it. He was a normal man; he liked sex. But it had been a long time since he’d wanted anyone as much as he wanted her.

There was something about her. Something special. That body, those lush lips. The way she’d come as Cleopatra, Mark Antony’s seductress. That had to be fate.

He glanced again at his watch. What if she’d found someone else? The thought of her with another man—holding her, dancing with her, maybe even… His teeth ground together. She’d tasted so sweet, so ripe. The mere idea that someone else was sampling her mouth or even something more…

The pencil in his hand snapped in two.

At the other end of the line the phone rang out. Damien slammed down the receiver and checked his notes for the next number. He’d track this guy down and get him to take responsibility for this mess if it killed him.

He wasn’t coming back. The sad truth hit her like a blow to the gut. Almost two hours now. The comedian had finished, the band had done another two brackets, leaving taped music in its wake, and it was clear there was no way Damien was coming back. Either whatever had called him away was taking more time than he’d anticipated or he’d found someone else and changed his mind.

There was no question as to which scenario was the most likely. She’d been kidding herself to think she was that special.

It was getting late. She should go home. Staying here longer just increased the feeling of bitterness, the sense of overwhelming loss that gradually but irrevocably gnawed away at her earlier euphoria.

He wasn’t coming back.

She had one last look around the ballroom. The party was in full swing and laughter and music filled the air. Her evening hadn’t been a total loss. She’d chatted with a few people, sticking to safe topics like costumes and the party. She’d enjoyed the comedian. Even the lavishly spread tables, covered with all manner of finger food and nibbles, had proved a diversion, at least for her eyes, helping for a little while to take her mind off the time and its passing.

But now it was time to go home. There was no point staying. She put her glass down and turned towards the exit.

‘Would you care to dance with me?’

She smiled her thanks at the six foot tall kangaroo looking down at her and shook her head. ‘I was just leaving but thank you.’

‘Just one dance before you go? Come on, it’ll be fun. You ever danced with a kangaroo before?’

‘Um, no actually.’

‘Then now’s your chance.’ The kangaroo held out its paw.

She laughed a little and slipped her arm through his furry one. ‘Well, if you put it like that.’ One dance wouldn’t hurt. It would be nothing like dancing with Damien had been, but it might be fun, and it would be something to tell her mother in the morning. She’d certainly enjoy a story like this.

Kanga made it to the dance floor in a combination of skips and hops that had Philly laughing before they’d even begun. When he started to move to the music she couldn’t stop. She was either being buffeted by the huge hind legs of his costume or he’d swing around and collect her with his tail. It was impossible not to have fun.

She was still here.

For a while he’d been unable to find her, scared beyond belief that she’d already left when he didn’t even know who she was. But then his eyes had been drawn to the dance floor and there she was.

My God, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her smile was so wide her whole face lit up and she moved so well to the fast rock and roll number, her body picking up the beat and making it her own.

He checked out her partner and discounted him in the same glance. He could deal with Skippy. He’d dealt with much stronger adversaries, like the CEO he’d finally caught up with. He was history in the business community from here on in.

He moved closer, sensing the music track was nearing its end, preparing to cut in before anyone else had a chance to get anywhere near her. He’d wasted enough time tonight. Now he was going to make her his.

What made her look around? There was no way she could have heard a thing over the loud music, but something made her turn. Something made her look.

Not something.

Someone.

Her steps faltered in time with the skip of her heartbeat.

Damien. He was back and he was heading straight towards her. He’d come back for her. She sucked in a breath, watching his approach. He looked like a triumphant general returning from war. She was unaware she’d stopped dancing until Kanga tapped her on the shoulder with his paw.

‘You tired? It’s like an oven inside here. I’m getting a drink. Want one?’

She was aware her head was shaking but only just. Every other part of her concentrated on Damien’s purposeful approach, her body tingling in mounting anticipation with each step he took closer. His eyes were still masked but she could tell his focus didn’t leave her. It was empowering knowing that he could no more take his eyes off her than she could from him.

‘Okay, then. Thanks for the dance.’ Kanga bounded off to find refreshments as Damien reached her side. He took one of her hands, lifted it to his mouth and held it there, pressed to his lips.

Finally he removed his mouth. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were we?’

His grip was firm, his hand warm and strong. The fast rock and roll number came to an end as, without letting go of her hand, he drew her closer. For a few seconds he just stood, looking at her, ignoring the jostling of the crowd around him, waiting for the new track to cut in.

She couldn’t move. Even if he hadn’t had a grip on her hand, she wasn’t going anywhere. From under his mask the heat from his gaze pulled her like a magnet. Her body responded, breasts swelling, nipples tightening, as his sheer presence touched her in places his eyes couldn’t.

When the gentle strains of guitar playing signalled the start of a slow Robbie Williams ballad Damien pulled her gently into his arms and suddenly he was all around her. His chest, solid and warm, pressing against hers, his thighs firm, his arms encasing her, modelling her like clay to his form while he swayed to the music.

She gave in to the pressure and let her head fall against his chest to rest upon the plates that covered it. It wasn’t exactly comfortable but she didn’t care. When she breathed in it was his scent, natural and masculine, that intoxicated her senses.

His large hands held her close, one cradling her shoulder, the other firm at the small of her back, and his head rested over hers as they moved together to the music, their bodies as close as they could be with clothes on.

He breathed deep, unable to get a hold on her scent—frustrating for someone who prided himself on knowing them backwards. She was wearing a wig—that didn’t help—but there was some kind of rich perfume, something exotic, just like she was. Something else lurked below too, but the signals were blurry and he couldn’t quite make it out. Whatever it was, she smelt all woman. He liked that.

The rest of her he could make out just fine. She fitted him perfectly. Something told him she’d fit him everywhere perfectly. She moulded to his body as if she was made for it. The jut of her breasts, soft but firm against his chest, the dip to her waist and the flare of her hips. She was perfect.

His hands moved slowly over her back, exploring, taking inventory. He liked what he felt as she followed his swaying rhythm, her body curvy and sensual and just the way he liked them.

The only thing he hated was the mask she wore. He’d do away with that the first chance he got.

Besides, he wanted to see her eyes when she came.

He stiffened at the thought and the reality of his situation hit him like a brick. He wasn’t sure how the Romans had coped, but the thought of his costume betraying his desire on the dance floor in front of five hundred employees and their partners wasn’t appealing. He had to get them both out of here, now, while he could still think straight.

The music track had reached its climax. He was vaguely envious as it wound down to a slow refrain. There was no way he was winding down any time soon—unless this woman had something to do with it. And if he had any say she’d have everything to do with it!

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered, nibbling on her ear.

She felt too weak to respond, lost in the multitude of new and wonderful sensations she was being bombarded with.

Was this how seduction felt? Never before had she felt such liquid heat pooling inside her. This total absence of real thought, all mind function replaced by body function and totally concentrated on one thing, the fruition of one act. One utterly irresistible, inevitable act.

She wanted more of what he was doing to her, more of what he was making her feel. She wanted him.

This was new—to feel such intense longing and desire for any one man! Passion like she’d never before experienced. Bryce had never once made her feel like this in their entire two-year relationship. He’d always made her feel that lovemaking was an obligation.

What was happening now with Damien couldn’t be more different. Right now making love with Damien felt like her destiny. A destiny she felt powerless to deny.

With his hand at her back steering her towards an exit, she allowed him to propel her towards that destiny.

He swooped and opened a side door in her path, his other hand encouraging her through to the dimly lit hallway beyond. He pulled the door shut behind them and spun her against the wall in the same rapid-fire action.

Her back met the wall at the same instant his mouth meshed with hers.

Frantic.

Hungry.

His lips slanted over hers and a moment later he was inside, his tongue seeking hers. He tasted rich and real, of masculine heat and warm brandy, and she let herself go with the sensation, the ecstasy of him filling her mouth.

One hand found her breast and she gasped as his fingers grazed her nipple, searing through the light fabric.

The other dropped to her skirt and he filled his hand with the round of one perfect cheek. Her muscles tightened in response and he was rewarded by the push of her belly into his growing hardness.

He growled, long and low, at the building tension, the anticipation of its relief, and she squirmed under his hands.

His touch was a brand on her, exploring, pushing, urgent and hot. Need radiated inside her like a fire front, the flames spreading wider until every part of her was alight. The oxygen delivered by her rapid breaths fuelled the flames.

The door alongside swung open. Someone looked around, mumbling a quick apology before diving back into the auditorium. Damien pulled his mouth away giving a low soft curse. He grabbed her hand again. ‘Come on,’ he said.

She followed behind him down the corridor, senses reeling as he tugged her insistently along, then round a corner, up a flight of stairs and over a parquet floor. He stopped outside a pair of solid doors flanked with impressive brass framing. The boardroom. He pulled something from a pocket somewhere—a keycard—and shoved it through the slot. In the wooden surrounds and over the muted sounds of the revelry below the click echoed loud and long. And final.

She swallowed as logic fought for precedence in her mind. Once inside there was no turning back. No chance to change her mind.

But she had no intention of changing her mind. There was no way she didn’t want to follow this scene through to its logical conclusion. She’d come too far.

He pulled her into the room, though she hardly needed persuading. The door closed behind them and he turned the lock. They were alone, the room unlit but for the venetian blind dressed window sending slices of moonlight cascading across the sleek boardroom table.

Her eyes adjusted and in the gloom it was as if the years had peeled away and history itself was replaying.

Right now she was Cleopatra and he was her Mark Antony.

He reached out a hand to her face, touching her mask.

She flinched from his grasp and shook her head. ‘No!’ she whispered. She wouldn’t kid herself. He wouldn’t be doing this if he knew who she was. Only after, when it was too late for him to change his mind, only then would she let him take off her mask.

He would be angry, no doubt. Even worse, he would be disappointed. His fantasy would end right then and there. But she would have this memory to treasure for ever. And, no doubt, she would.

In the pale moonlight she saw the corner of his mouth lift. ‘All right, let’s do it your way. I have more urgent business first.’

His hands went to her waist and he lifted her easily to the table, pushing away the chairs to each side. He eased down the bodice of her gown, releasing her breasts to the air and his gaze. Her skin tightened, her nipples achingly firm.

He growled low and rough, and dropped his mouth to one pert peak. Her swift intake of breath pushed her breast further towards him; he filled his mouth with the flesh as his tongue traced the tip. He left that breast, focused on the second, delivering the same languid pleasure strokes with his tongue, his hands now at her legs, running her gown up her bare legs, spreading them as he forced himself between.

She clung to his head, her fingers raking through his hair, down his neck, exploring his wide shoulders, drinking in the width and strength of his back.

One hand rounded her thigh and against the fabric of her thong. The damp fabric of her thong. ‘Oh, God,’ he muttered as her head fell back, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration, the fabric no barrier to flesh already inflamed and exquisitely sensitised. She clawed at his costume, attempting to fill her own hands with the touch of his skin, frustrated that she could find no way in.

Suddenly he wheeled away, impatiently pulling at his garments, shucking off the shoulder gear and chest plate with a clatter and tearing off his tunic. He returned to her, naked but for his black underwear and his sandals, his skin gleaming in the soft moonlight.

She pulled him into her arms and relished the feel of the skin at his back, hot and slick with expectation and desire, as he continued his exploration, driving her crazy with need as he teased her with his fingers.

‘So beautiful,’ he murmured against her nipple. ‘And so wet.’ Those last words sounded as if they had been wrung from him. He lifted her slightly and removed her thong and with both hands he pulled her closer to the edge of the table. His underwear was no barrier to the hard bulge of his erection butting against her.

He was so big.

Anticipation kicked up a notch. She wanted him inside her. All of him. He pulled himself away fractionally, wrenching down his own underwear. And then he was free. Even in the dim light he looked magnificent, all pulsing energy with its own special rhythm. She reached down a hand, wanting to feel the power, to guide him to her, to share the dance.

She touched him, her fingers cupping him, entranced by the weight, the contrasts in the feel of him, rock-hard yet with skin like silk, so rigid yet pulsing, filled with life.

She closed her fingers around him and he gasped. This fantasy woman would not escape him tonight. He had to have her. Had to feel her wrapped around him, hugging him tight inside, her muscles clamping around him in spasms when she came.

Her hand moved the length of him, her thumb flicking over his sensitive tip.

Oh, God!

Exit rational thought.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away as he scooped her yet closer, directing himself at the same time that he dropped his mouth on hers. His rapid action took her by surprise—her lips already open and forming a surprised ‘o’ even as he plundered her mouth with his. And then he brought her closer still, until her legs wrapped around behind him and her slick wetness welcomed him, urging him to drive himself home.

He didn’t need further invitation. With one smooth thrust he entered her, wrapping himself in liquid velvet. She cried out something indiscernible, but even muffled by his mouth over hers he recognised the same note of victory and ecstasy he’d felt in joining her.

She felt magnificent.

Slowly he withdrew, only to slam into her again, leaning into her and forcing her lower. Her hands went back to support herself and she threw her head back, gasping for air, her shiny fake hair falling back from her pale skin like the tide receding.

He loved the way it moved.

He loved the way she moved, especially when he was inside her.

He planted his mouth over her throat in the spot where her pulse flickered and jumped as he pumped into her again. She felt so good, so damned good, and as she squeezed her muscles around him and the pressure built inside he knew that though he wanted this feeling to last longer, for ever, there was no way he was going to be able to make it last.

No way on earth.

There was nothing he could do. Control ceased to exist. Then she bucked under him, her muscles tight and urgent, inflaming, drawing him deeper and deeper inside and he was lost.

He cried out, something harsh and guttural and triumphant as he emptied himself into her shuddering body, collecting her up and pulling her down on to him in a broad conference chair.

Oh, wow!

She hadn’t known what to expect but it sure hadn’t been such an all-consuming experience. Her body still hummed from their union, her pulse and breathing slowly settling back into a more normal routine.

He sprawled below her, cradling her, as her brain tried to kick back in.

But what had she done?

She took a few deep breaths, feeling her pulse quieten and trying to make sense of what had just happened.

She’d just made love with the boss. And not just any boss. She’d made love with Damien DeLuca.

What was more, they’d not used protection. Nothing. Hadn’t even stopped to think about it.

She must be mad. She’d thought she wasn’t the reckless type but one feeling of desire, one whiff of Damien being attracted to her, and logic had vanished from her mind. Completely and utterly.

She must be crazy.

And now she was cradled on top of him, Damien’s hand at her breast, caressing her, his naked body below already showing signs of recovery.

The languid feel of her muscles and limbs vanished as cold, hard truth replaced it. Without trying to touch him too much, she tried to angle herself off, tried to edge away. How was she going to explain what had happened? How could she ever face him again? Guilt and shame settled upon her like a shroud.

She had to get out of here. Before he discovered who she was. There was even a chance she might even lose her job over this—who knew how he might react?—and she couldn’t afford that, not with the prospect of expensive hospice care for her mother coming up some time soon.

She had to get out of here. Now.

‘What’s wrong?’

She glanced at the door and her pulse went into overdrive as an idea formed in her mind. With Damien naked, at least she had a running start. Her hand patted her throat. ‘Th…thirsty.’

‘I think I can fix that,’ he said easily, easing her from his lap gently.

She pulled up the bodice on her dress and reached down to retrieve her underwear.

‘Don’t bother putting that back on,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her on her already swollen lips. ‘We haven’t finished with each other yet. Not by a long shot.’

Still she clung to the scrap of material as if it was life-support while his words turned to a desire that curled deep within her.

He wanted her again.

She wished he hadn’t told her that. She didn’t want any regrets from this night—she had enough of those already. But the last thing she wanted was to lie by herself in bed during the long lonely nights ahead thinking about what pleasures she might have missed out on.

Naked, he turned and padded his way to a built-in cabinet along the narrowest wall. She watched him go in the pale light even as she edged closer to the door, his skin deliciously firm, his legs long and powerful, unwilling to tear her eyes away. He pulled open a door, exposing a bar fridge behind and hunkered down to look inside.

This was her chance!

She hit the door running, doing battle with the lock and finally wrenching it open. Behind her he shouted for her to stop but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn.

She raced over the parquet floor to the stairs as fast as she could, the heels on her sandals clattering and echoing in the dark-filled space, blood pumping so loudly it drowned out the curses ringing in her ears.