She wriggled against him, and he drove his tongue deep into her mouth, giving her a taste of what he wanted, what he really craved. She arched against him and he felt his erection leap.
The car shuddered to a stop. He lifted his head. “Carry on like that and I’ll forget my good intentions. I’ll hit the button for my suite. Three steps and we’ll be in the dining room. Three minutes and we can both be naked. Is that what you want?”
“No.” She shook her head wildly, her face shocked and pale. “I don’t want this…you.” She stumbled backwards out of the confined space, her hands covering her eyes. “God, what am I doing?”
He followed more slowly. Putting an arm around her shoulder he guided her away from the public lobby. Out of sight. “What we’ve done many times before?” he said helpfully. Her hands dropped away from her face and she bit her lip, her teeth white against the bee-stung bottom lip as she glared at him. But something in her eyes, a deep agonised confusion made him stretch his hand out. “Hey, it’s okay, I know you don’t remember. But it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.” It was a wail. Then her head was back in her hands, her fingers knotting through the long dark red curls. “It matters more than I can tell you.”
“It doesn’t.” He stroked her shoulder and noticed absently that his hand was trembling. “I’ll tell you something, it’s even better now than it ever was in the past. It’s more…I can’t explain. But I can’t seem to get enough of you. The taste of you, the feel of your body up against mine. I want you, Gemma. Badly.”
“Believe me, that’s not good.” The smile she gave him was wan.
“It will be very good,” he promised, “you’ll see.”
“I can’t.” Her expression grew resolute. “Angelo, I can’t make love to you—”
Irritation twisted inside Angelo. He wanted her. He wasn’t accustomed to women saying no. “Why? You want to.”
“That’s arrogant.” But true. She was terrified she was going to cave in to his demand. She drew a ragged breath. There was one thing he would understand. “I can’t make love with you until my memory returns.”
He cursed.
“Who knows,” she added, “there might be someone else—”
“Someone so important that you don’t remember him?” he sneered. “Someone like Jean-Paul Moreau?”
That only made her expression harden. “That’s it. Good night. I’m finished with trying to talk to you. I’m going to bed. Alone.”
Six
The ringing of the phone woke Gemma. Any plans she’d harboured to sleep late on Thursday—her day off—fell apart when Mark Lyme, the manager of the entertainment complex, told her that Lucie had come down with a flu-like virus. Immediately Gemma offered to take over some of Lucie’s performances and arranged a time to meet with Mark to discuss a suitable program.
The Dionysus was a very different set-up to the Electra Theatre, and it had been years since she’d worked in a bar environment. Most of the day was spent putting together the program with Mark and Denny, another performer, for the first fill-in performance early that evening.
The substitute show was rough and ready but it was enough to satisfy the crowd. They sang a couple of duets, Denny told some jokes and they invited some of tourists to sing along karaoke-style.
Gemma caught a brief glimpse of Angelo in the back of the bar halfway through the evening. He was waiting for her and she found herself accepting his invitation to dinner. At first she fretted that he might try to kiss her…seduce her…but her worries proved to be unfounded. Angelo behaved like the perfect gentleman.
Lying in bed that night, Gemma covered her eyes and moaned out loud. She was so confused. Who was the real Angelo Apollonides?
By Friday Lucie’s temperature was raging and Dr. Natos, the resort doctor, had prescribed bed and rest.
Gemma and Denny met for another rehearsal. During a brief break, she found Angelo at her elbow, holding two paper cups. “Coffee? I’m sure you could use it.”
“What’s that saying about not trusting Greeks who come bearing gifts?” She slanted him a provocative glance.
“Hardly a gift. Consider it an apology.”
After a moment’s pause she took the paper cup. “An apology?”
He looked abashed. “For my behaviour the other night. I should have apologised over dinner yesterday. But I didn’t.”
“Oh.” She took a sip. It was strong and sweet and pungent.
He frowned. “I’m confused.”
That made two of them! She slanted him a wary glance. “Why?”
“I had no intention of having anything to do with you. But I keep thinking you’ve changed. Then something happens—like seeing you with Jean-Paul—and I think I’m wrong. You’re still the same.” He raked his fingers through his golden hair. “Have you changed?”
She shut her eyes. God. How on earth was she supposed to respond to that? Not honestly. It was too late for that. She had to soldier on. And then there was the fact that she wasn’t ready to face the rage and scorn in his eyes when he discovered her treachery. Not yet.
She’d tell him when she was about to leave. When her contract had ended. And she had uncovered the truth about Mandy. Whatever that might be.
He waved a hand. “Forget it. That’s a stupid question. Sit down, you could probably use the break.”
Gemma followed him dragging her feet as he led her to the cluster of seating in a small lobby.
His cell phone rang. Fishing it out his pocket, he studied the caller ID. “My mother,” he said. “Excuse me.”
Angelo could feel Gemma’s eyes resting on him as he responded to his mother’s well wishes. He listened with half an ear to a story about the car her latest husband had bought, laughed when expected. Conscious of keeping Gemma waiting, he cut the conversation short.
“For a playboy, you have a good relationship with your mother,” Gemma said, her eyes curious.
He didn’t rise to the bait. “Even playboys have mothers. And, despite all the wealth in the world, her life has not been easy,” he answered guardedly. “She fell pregnant with me when she was very young. The man abandoned her. I never met him.”
Not my father, but the man, Gemma noticed.
“Oh.”
It must have been hell for a young boy.
“So is today your birthday?”
“Yes—I’m blessed with two celebrations in one month. Last week it was my name day.”
“Name day? What’s that?”
“A day all people bearing the name of a particular saint celebrate. So on the eighth of November anyone called Angelo celebrates. My mother thought I was an angel when I was born.” He gave her a sardonic smile.
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