Probably because he’d never visualised it as a genuine temptation, he acknowledged ruefully.
So what had changed—and when?
At what moment had she ceased to be a target—and become a woman?
It was when I called her ‘unawakened’—and realised it was true, he thought.
She’d been engaged to be married. It was unrealistic to suppose she hadn’t been involved in a sexual relationship with her fiancé. Yet his experience told him that, sensually and emotionally, she was still a virgin.
That maybe the Ice Maiden image was born from disappointment rather than indifference. That all the potential for response was there, waiting, just below the surface.
He’d felt it all evening in the swift judder of her pulses when he’d touched her, in the tiny indrawn breaths she hadn’t been able to conceal. And in the sudden trembling capitulation of her mouth as he’d kissed her.
Shock tactics, he’d told himself at the time, when he’d seen her standing there, the wide eyes filling with accusation. An expedient designed merely to prevent her from sweeping out and reducing his chances of saving Montedoro to nil.
He hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much. Or to want so much more so soon either. That was an added complication he could well do without.
That, indeed, he would do without. Because he wasn’t some adolescent at the mercy of his hormones, he reminded himself bluntly. He had control, and he would use it from now on.
But he hadn’t anticipated Cory Grant’s own hunger, he thought, his mouth tightening.
He realised now what it must have cost her to issue that faltering invitation. Had seen the shock in her eyes when he’d stepped back.
But perhaps in the greater scheme of things that was no bad thing, he told himself tersely. He would stay away for a few days, he decided. Keep her guessing. Allow her to miss him a little, or even a lot, before he made another approach. And then, just when she thought it was safe to go back in the water…
Because he couldn’t afford any softening, whatever the inducement. He had to stay focused—cold-blooded in his approach. He had too much at stake to allow any ill-advised chivalrous impulses to intervene.
And if he’d created an appetite in Cory Grant, he could use it. Feed it tiny morsels rather than a full banquet. Until she could think—could dream—nothing but him, and the denial he was inflicting on her senses.
And that voluptuous ache in his own groin would simply have to be endured for now, he thought grimly.
When all this business was behind him, and Montedoro was safe, he would indulge himself. Take a break in Bali or the Caribbean. Find some warm and willing girl looking for holiday pleasure, and tip them both over the edge during long hot moonlit nights.
Someone who did not have bones like a bird and skin like cool, clean silk. Or a wistful huskiness in her voice when she spoke of her childhood.
He sighed restlessly and angrily, and lengthened his stride.
The Ice Maiden, he decided broodingly, would have been altogether easier to cheat.
Cory leaned back against the door of her flat, staring sightlessly in front of her, trying to steady the jagged breathing tearing at her chest.
‘I don’t believe I did that.’ Her voice was a hoarse, angry whisper. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’
I’m not drunk, she thought. Therefore I must be mad. Totally out of my tree.
And now, somehow, I have to become sane again. Before I end up in real trouble.
She shuddered, crossing her arms defensively across her breasts.
She’d just issued the most dangerous invitation in her life—and somehow she’d been let off the hook. Rome had turned her down, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom but for which she had to be grateful, she told herself resolutely.
Only, she didn’t feel grateful. She felt bewildered, bruised and reeling. Lost, even. And humiliated in a way she’d sworn would never happen again.
She eased herself slowly away from the door and fastened the bolt and the security chain before heading for her bedroom. She didn’t put on any of the lights. She just went in and fell across the bed, without removing her clothes or her make-up. Curling up in the dark like a small animal going to earth to escape a predator.
And a lucky escape it had been. For all the anguish of emotion assailing her, she could not deny that.
Because Rome and she inhabited two different worlds. And the fact that those worlds had briefly collided meant nothing. Because soon he would be gone. Back to his vineyard and his real life. A life that did not include her but which would encompass other women.
And she would remain here, and go on working for her grandfather, as if nothing had happened. So it was important—essential—that nothing did happen. Or nothing serious, anyway.
She couldn’t afford any regrets when Rome had gone.
Although it might already be too late for that, she thought, turning on to her stomach and pressing her heated face into the pillow.
Since that night at the ball, she’d scarcely had a quiet moment. He’d invaded her space, filled her thoughts, and ruined her dreams.
In the aftermath of Rob, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about men at all. It had been safer that way. But just lately she’d had a few enjoyable fantasies about meeting someone whom she could love, and make a life with, and who would love her in return.
But even this cosy daydream had been snatched away. And in its place was a much darker image. One that churned her stomach in scared excitement, and made her body tremble.
It wasn’t love, she told herself. It was lust, and she was ashamed of it. She’d believed she wanted Rob, but that had been a pallid emotion compared with this raw, arching need that Rome had inspired.
He seemed etched on her mind—on her senses. He was in this room with her now. In this darkness. On this bed. His hands and mouth were exploring her with hot, sensuous delight, and she stifled the tiny, avid moan that rose in her throat.
I don’t want this, Cory thought desperately. I want to be the girl I was before. I might not have been very happy, but at least my mind and body belonged to myself alone.
She also had to live with the shame of knowing that this need was purely one-sided. Because Rome had been able to walk away without a backward glance.
Yet her main concern was her own behaviour.
She’d never made the running with men—not even with Rob. She’d allowed him to set the pace throughout their relationship.
She was too shy—too inhibited—to set up an agenda that included sex on demand, even with the man she planned to marry.
Until now, tonight, when she had suddenly stepped out of character.
And much good it did me, she thought bitterly.
Although going to bed with Rome would have been an even greater disaster, for all kinds of reasons.
When she saw him again—if she saw him again—she would be safely back in her own skin, she told herself, and playing by her own rules. She would take no more risks. Especially with someone like Rome d’Angelo.
She would be back in control.
And the loneliness of the thought brought tears, sharp and acrid, crowding into her throat.
‘Old Sansom’s playing a cool game over this land deal,’ Arnold Grant remarked. ‘I was