She arched against him, as she’d done when he’d gone down on her, meeting his every thrust, the motion sending little sparks of heat through her, a familiar tightness coiling low in her stomach.
She felt him start to shake, felt the control in his movements start to slip. A groan escaped his lips, and he bucked hard against her, freezing above her, pushing them both over the edge to oblivion.
When she came back to herself, she was lying on her back, starting at an unfamiliar ceiling, with his warm, protective weight covering her. As if she was something precious.
Except...he wasn’t protective. And she wasn’t precious.
She was nothing more than a criminal, who had tried to make good for a while and failed. And he was...he was...
She tried to push away the reality that was crowding in. Tried to ignore the truth she would have to face eventually. She didn’t want to. Not now. Not while pleasure was still buzzing through her. Not while she still felt so good.
The power she’d felt only a few moments before was slipping through her grip like sand through an hourglass and there was no way for her to turn it back over and start again.
Then he was up, moving away from her, turning and walking into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
And she could only lie where she was, still staring at that ceiling. At the way the molding formed different tiers and textures. She listened to the sounds of the streets outside filtering up, audible even through the closed windows.
Life was moving out there, and yet, in here, in this room, in this moment, she was frozen.
The bathroom door opened and Rocco reappeared, his shirt buttoned, his pants redone. Except for the lack of tie, he looked exactly as he had done when he’d first walked into the restaurant. As though nothing had happened. As though past minutes hadn’t existed.
They might have just shared cake and coffee, instead of their bodies.
“I have a meeting to get to,” he said, his voice as unaffected as his exterior. “You may stay here if you wish. The room is paid for through the night.”
“I...I...”
“That is all I will be requiring from you. Though, I confess, I didn’t expect you to give in quite so easily.”
His words were cold, distant, and she tried to recapture the feeling she’d had moments ago, of feeling close to him, and found she couldn’t. She would wonder if it had all been in her mind except she was still naked, on the bed.
She sat up, holding her hands over as much of her body as she could. Trying to reclaim some modesty, some dignity, some...something.
“I would have taken a lot less from you, cara mia, but you played the part of whore so well, who was I to stop you?”
She felt as if she’d been slapped, a sick, cold feeling of shame trickling through her veins. And she had no mask to recall. None to put in place and hide her nakedness, her vulnerability. “But you...I...”
“Speechless?” He arched a dark brow. “It was quite good, I’ll give you that. But, regrettably, I don’t have time for seconds.” He bent and picked up his tie, tying it quickly before buttoning his jacket.
He was untouched. Invulnerable. And she was still stripped. Of everything.
“As I said, I require nothing more from you. Consider your debt paid.” He turned away from her. “The sex was...incredible. But I’m not sure it was worth a million dollars. I think, in the end, you got the better part of the deal.” He strode away from her, pulling the door open and pausing, turning to face her. “I want you to remember something, Charity.”
He waited. Waited until her heart was thundering so hard she was certain he could hear it. Waited until she was certain she would be ill. Waited until she couldn’t hold the question back any longer.
“What?” she asked, her throat dry.
“That it was just as I said. I made you beg for it.” Then he walked through the door, and let it close firmly behind him.
Charity just sat there in the center of the bed, tugging her legs up to her chest. She looked down at the white bedspread and saw a smear of blood and the full horror hit her.
A tear slid down her cheek, a sob shaking her body.
Dear God, what had she done? What had he made her into?
She’d never been a “good girl.” Never been honorable or honest. How could you be when the first skill you learned was tricking strangers into thinking you needed money so you could bring it back to your father? How could you ever be good when you’d been straddling the lines between right and wrong from the beginning?
But there were lines she had never crossed. She had never used her body like this.
And now...
The room is paid for...
No. She wouldn’t stay here. She couldn’t. And she wouldn’t let that damned lingerie touch her skin ever again.
Another tear slipped down her cheek and she wiped it away, anger fueling her now. She could fall apart later, but for now, she needed to handle this.
She had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. She had revealed herself to him. Her real self, not just her facade. You didn’t show yourself to a mark, ever.
He was still a mark. That was all. And she would never make such a mistake again.
She picked up the phone that was by the bedside and dialed the front desk. “Yes,” she said when the woman on the other end answered. “I’m in Mr. Amari’s room. I need a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Medium. Some sneakers. Size eight. And a bra. Thirty-six B. Just charge it to the room.”
She hung up and sat back down on the bed. She wasn’t touching that dress, those shoes, or the lingerie again.
The sweats were a fair trade.
It was the last thing she would ever take from Rocco Amari. The very last thing.
After this, she would forget about him. About this hotel room. Where she had lost her pride and her virginity all at the same time.
From this moment on, Rocco Amari was dead to her. She would leave this experience here, over and done.
She’d used her body to escape, so she would damn well see that it was an escape. No more cons. No more helping her father out with one last thing.
She would leave here, and go into her new life, with a fresh start.
After this, she would not speak of him. She would not think of him. She would take nothing from him ever again.
ROCCO AMARI WAS a bastard. In every sense of the word. He’d been aware of that from an early age. From the time he’d first been teased by other neighborhood children for not having a father to the moment he’d watched his mother, a grim look of wounded pride on her face, accept money from an employee of the man who’d sired him, to help them keep the modest house they called home. Provided they never made contact with him.
Yes, he had known, then and always, that he was nothing more than an illegitimate child born to a rich man’s unwanted mistress. And as time had gone on he had learned that playing the part of the bastard in the colloquial sense served a man well in his ascent to success.
Though, in his case, the role had become his reality. There was no place in his life for conscience, no place for compassion. He had learned, long ago, that a man had to look out for himself because when push came to shove no one else would.
Venture capital was not the sort of business that