And then what?
She swallowed. A mindless coupling with someone who’d made no secret of his contempt for her? An act which would inevitably leave him triumphant and her, what? Empty, that was what.
A lifetime of turning down sexual invitations meant that she knew exactly how to produce the kind of brisk smile which would destabilise the situation without causing a scene. But for once, it took a real effort.
‘I think not,’ she said, scooping up her pashmina from the sofa. ‘I have a self-protective instinct which warns me off intimacy with a certain kind of man, and I’m afraid you’re one of them. The things I require from you are purely practical, Niccolò. I need a list of craftsmen—painters and decorators—who you use on your properties and who I assume will be available to work for me—and to work very quickly if we’re to get this job in on time.’
The impatient wave of his hand told her that painters and decorators were of no interest to him. ‘Speak to Kirsty about it.’
‘I will.’ She hitched the strap of her bag further over her shoulder. ‘And if that’s everything—I’ll get going.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘You have your own car?’
Was he kidding? Didn’t he realise that car parking costs in London put motoring way beyond the reach of mere mortals? Alannah shook her head. ‘I always use public transport.’
‘Then I will take you. I insist.’ His eyes met hers with cool challenge. ‘Unless you’d prefer to travel by train on a freezing December night, rather than in the warm comfort of my car?’
‘You’re boxing me into a corner, Niccolò.’
‘I know I am. But you’ll find it’s a very comfortable box.’ He took his car keys from his jacket pocket. ‘Come.’
In the elevator, she kept her distance. Just as she kept her gaze trained on the flashing arrow as it took them down to the underground car park, where his car was waiting.
He punched her postcode into his satnav and didn’t say another word as they drove along the busy streets of Knightsbridge, where Christmas shoppers were crowding the frosty pavements. Alannah peered out of the window. Everywhere was bright with coloured lights and gifts and people looking at the seasonal displays in Harrods’s windows.
The car turned into Trafalgar Square and the famous Christmas tree loomed into view and suddenly Alannah felt the painful twist of her heart. It was funny how grief hit you when you least expected it—in a fierce wave which made your eyes grow all wet and salty. She remembered coming here with her mother, when they were waiting for the result of her biopsy. When standing looking up at a giant tree on an icy winter night had seemed like the perfect city outing. There’d been hardly any money in their purses, but they’d still had hope. Until a half-hour session with a man in a white coat had quashed that hope and they’d never been able to get it back again.
She blinked away the tears as the car began to speed towards West London, hoping that Niccolò’s concentration on the traffic meant he hadn’t noticed. He reached out to put some music on—something Italian and passionate, which filled the air and made her heart clench again, but this time with a mixture of pleasure and pain.
Closing her eyes, she let the powerful notes wash over her and when she opened them again the landscape had altered dramatically. The houses in this part of the city were much closer together and as Niccolò turned off the main road a few stray traces of garbage fluttered like ghosts along the pavement.
‘Is this where you live?’ he questioned.
She heard the faint incredulity in his voice and realised that this was exactly why she hadn’t wanted this lift. Because he will judge you. He will judge you and find you wanting, just as he’s always done. ‘That’s right,’ she said.
He killed the engine and turned to look at her, his dark features brooding in the shadowed light.
‘It’s not what I expected.’
Her question was light, almost coquettish. She wondered if he could tell she’d been practising saying it in her head. ‘And what did you expect?’
For a moment Niccolò didn’t answer, because once again she had confounded his expectations. He had imagined a pricey location—a fortified mansion flat bought on the proceeds of the money she’d earned from Stacked magazine. Or a cute little mews cottage in Holland Park. Somewhere brimming with the kind of wealthy men who might enjoy dabbling with a woman as beautiful as her.
But this…
The unmistakable signs of poverty were all around them. The rubbish on the pavement. A battered car with its wing-mirror missing. The shadowy group of youths in their hoodies, who stood watching their car with silent menace.
‘What happened to all your money?’ he questioned suddenly. ‘You must have earned—’
‘Stacks?’ she questioned pointedly.
His smile was brief as he acknowledged the pun. ‘A lot.’
She stared down at her handbag. ‘It was a short-lived career—it didn’t exactly provide me with a gold-plated pension.’
‘So what did you do with it?’
I paid for my mother’s medical bills. I chased a miracle which was never going to happen. I chased it until the pot was almost empty though the outcome hadn’t changed one bit. She shrugged, tempted to tell him that it was none of his business—but she sensed that here was a man who wouldn’t give up. Who would dig away until he had extracted everything he needed to know. She tried to keep her words light and flippant, but suddenly it wasn’t easy. ‘Oh, I frittered it all away. As you do.’
Niccolò looked at the unexpected tremble of her lips and frowned, because that sudden streak of vulnerability she was trying so hard to disguise was completely unexpected. Was she regretting the money she had squandered? Did she lay awake at night and wonder how the hell she had ended up in a place like this? He tried and failed to imagine how she fitted in here. Despite all her attempts to subdue her innate sensuality and tame her voluptuous appearance, she must still stand out like a lily tossed carelessly into a muddy gutter.
And suddenly he wanted to kiss her. The streetlight was casting an unworldly orange light over her creamy skin, so that she looked like a ripe peach just begging to be eaten. He felt temptation swelling up inside him, like a slow and insistent storm. Almost without thinking, he found himself reaching out to touch her cheek, wondering if it felt as velvety-soft as it appeared. And it did. Oh, God, it did. A whisper of longing licked over his skin.
‘What…what do you think you’re doing?’ she whispered.
‘You know damned well what I’m doing,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I’m giving into something which has always been there and which is refusing to die. Something which gets stronger each time we see each another. So why don’t we just give into it, Alannah—and see where it takes us?’
She knew it was coming. Of course she did. She’d been kissed by enough men to recognise the sudden roughening of his voice and opaque smoulder of his black eyes. But no man had ever kissed her the way Niccolò did.
Time slowed as he bent his face towards hers and she realised he was giving her enough time to stop him. But she didn’t. How could she when she wanted this so much? She just let him anchor her with the masterful slide of his hands as they captured the back of her head, before he crushed his lips down on hers.
Instantly, she moaned. It was ten long years since he’d kissed her and already she was on fire. She felt consumed by it. Powered by it. Need washed over her as she splayed her palms against his chest as his tongue licked its way into her mouth—her lips opened greedily,