God help her, she actually snorted. “The day I believe there’s an insecure little boy inside you is the day I believe I’ll sprout wings if I cluck hard enough.”
His laughter was louder this time, lasted longer. Spread more damage. “Ah, Phoebe, you know me too well. How about the vindictive little boy inside me, then? Who wants to see the object of his hero worship groveling, admitting how much he’s wronged him, and how the guilt of his transgressions has never given him a moment’s peace?”
She stilled. His eyes lost the crinkle of amusement as he stared back at her. And she saw it.
A groan escaped her. “I don’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t think there’s a vindictive little boy inside you, either. Whatever you have in there, I think it’s still just…just…”
“Angry? Affronted?” he offered, mock helpfully.
“Stunned.”
He went totally still. His stare lengthened. Until she was sure he’d burned a hole between her eyes.
Suddenly he was surrounding her. All her nerves gave way at once. She melted back into the couch. He followed her, still not touching her. She felt as if he’d licked her all over, with fire. When he was inches away from her lips, he rumbled, “Didn’t you notice that you haven’t done any negotiating so far?”
Each word jolted through her, coating her lungs with his scent, his potency. “If—if I’ve learned anything as a negotiator, ” she gasped, “it’s how to know for certain when my…opponent has no intention whatsoever…under any persuasion.…to negotiate.”
Another inch disappeared. “I’m your opponent now?”
“You’re worse. An opponent I can handle. You’re…you’re…”
“I’m…what?” He obliterated half of the last inch.
Her hand went up. To keep him away? All she knew was that her hand met the convergence of silk and steel and searing heat and stuck there like a pin to a magnet.
“Phoebe…”
Her ears rang with her name, the very sound of wonder, of hunger, with the racket of doors slamming shut in her mind. All existence was his lips. Almost there. On hers. At last. Please.
She couldn’t breathe, so she breathed him. He smelled so much better than air. Felt so much more vital. Necessary…
No. No. He wasn’t. She’d let him be that once, and…No.
She twisted away, feeling as if she’d wrenched back from a precipice. Her heart hammered inside her; her lungs burned. Somewhere an auxiliary power source kicked in, yanked her up to her feet.
Her gaze slammed around. Where is the damn door?
“Signorina?”
She swung around blindly, seeking the voice. So welcome. As always. Ernesto. Her ally. Her solace. Her secret-keeper.
He was standing at the door, holding a laden silver tray.
She took a step toward him. The second was harder. The third was too hard to finish, as if Leandro’s influence was pulling her back. Ernesto looked past her, at his master, no doubt, and gave a grudging nod. To her he gave a bolstering look. Then he retreated.
She opened her mouth to cry for him to come back, and Leandro’s drawl lodged between her shoulder blades.
“Forgetting something, Phoebe? Your mission?”
Without turning to him, she gritted words out through her teeth. “You let me come here just to settle a score, to show me it was never anything but a wild goose chase. Just as well. You’re not salvation material. In fact, you would probably be the worst thing that could happen to Castaldini right now.”
She suddenly felt as if he’d let her go. She surged forward. As it had that last time she’d been here, the door seemed to recede…
“Phoebe.”
His murmur hit her with the force of a gunshot.
“Tomorrow night. It’s still up to you.”
She felt as if she were drowning in the bass reaches of his croon. “Wh—what are you talking about now?”
Silence. Until she started to shake. Then she almost fell to her knees when he whispered, “It’s still up to you to convince me. Why I should give…anyone…a second chance.”
Three
Phoebe’s gaze swept over the extravagance surrounding her.
To her right, sunshine soaked in vibrant color filtered through a ten-foot-wide stained-glass window, transferring its tinted image to the pristine white marble floor. All around it clear, eight-foot-tall windows nestled among silk-covered walls, framing glimpses of Central Park and staining the openplan space with sunset’s copper. Among the opulence of the French-chateaux style of décor and furniture, the hand-painted piano caught her eye, its French countryside scenery depiction a poetry of precision. Out of sight, in the bowels of the suite occupying nearly the entire eighteenth floor of the hotel, lay five bedrooms, five and a half bathrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, a powder room and a sauna. The attractions included three marble fireplaces, a terrace and a two-thousand-bottle wine cellar. Amenities included the services of a secretary/butler and the hotel’s chefs.
In a nutshell, all the excess that fifteen grand a night could buy.
This was the upgrade Leandro had insisted she stay in, substituting the suite Castaldini had reserved for her for the Presidential Suite, which was evidently at his disposal year-round.
She’d failed to get him to let her stay in an accommodation made for a normal human being. The kind who had one body, necessitating one bed and one bathroom.
But that wasn’t her biggest problem. Not when she, Phoebe Alexander, negotiator extraordinaire, had walked into a situation that had all the potential of diverting the course of a whole kingdom’s history and had handled it with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop full of red dishes.
In another nutshell, she’d messed up. And she hadn’t even realized it. Not during the process of messing up, anyway.
She’d walked away from that disaster of a meeting thinking she’d held up under Leandro’s power, that although it had been a premeditated, mouse-torturing session run by a master feline, she hadn’t let him get away with it without landing a few blows of her own.
She must owe that delusion to overexposure to him. He’d always nullified her insight, neutralized her logic. But with his evolution from one-of-a-kind male into force of nature, he’d metamorphosed her into her mirror image, the reverse of her hard-earned, calm and cool persona. Blunt, rash, reckless. Inflammatory.
Instead of delivering levelheaded arguments, she’d let herself be provoked and antagonized. Her verbal missiles had only turned him into the opposite of the younger man who’d taken life and himself too seriously, who’d been too consumed by the drive to reach greater success to have—or at least to make use of—a sense of humor.
The new Leandro had reveled in being crossed and criticized, had turned everything—starting with himself—into fodder for repartee. He’d also been blatant about the resurrection of his attraction. Everything he’d said and done had loosened her selfrestraint even more.
Not that that excused what she’d done. The depth of un-professionalism she’d sunk to was appalling. Not only had she not tried to fulfill her mission, she’d done her best to sabotage it. Even his reminder that she hadn’t done any negotiating hadn’t jogged sense into her malfunctioning brain. One minute later, she’d run out, essentially saying what’s the point and good riddance.
But he’d had the final