The finger that rested on her cheek traced a slow, gentle path down the line of her jaw, to rest against the corner of her mouth, hooded eyes watching every flicker of expression across her face.
It was all that Rose could do not to turn her head sharply, pull away from that small, lingering touch. She wanted to move, desperately longed to back away, and yet at the same time that simple touch was so familiar, bringing back memories of the feel of his hands on her skin, the taste of his mouth...
She couldn’t go there. She mustn’t go there!
‘Take your hand off my face.’ She hissed the words out as much against the feelings that were stinging her as at him. ‘I didn’t give you permission to touch me and I...’
She couldn’t continue in the face of his unexpected soft laugh and the way that he deliberately twisted his hand so that the backs of his fingers were now against her skin. Deliberately he stroked his fingers down her cheek again.
‘I said don’t do that!’ This time she couldn’t hold back and jerked her head away in angry rejection.
His laughter scoured her spine, but he lifted his hand slowly, bronze eyes gleaming with wicked mockery.
‘My, you do have a tendency to overreact, querida. It didn’t use to be that way. I can recall a time when you would beg for my touch.’
‘Then you must have an amazing memory. It was a very long time ago.’
‘Not long enough,’ Nairo drawled, the smile evaporating fast. ‘Some things you just don’t forget.’
‘Really? Well, I’m afraid my recollection isn’t as good as yours—and it’s certainly not something I want to revive.’
Making the movement look as if she were only wanting to ease his departure, she slipped away from him, holding open the door again.
‘I’ll pass on your messages.’
The words showed every trace of the effort she was making to get them out, fighting against giving in to the burning response even that most gentle of touches was sparking off all over her skin. One flick of a glance up at him was more than she could cope with. She could see herself reflected in those burnished eyes, small and diminished in a way that made her legs feel weak as cotton wool.
‘I’ll tell her—everything you said.’
‘Except that you knew me before.’
How did he manage to inject such deadly poison into six simple words? The stepfather she had run from in a flight that had ended up with her living in the squat might have ranted and roared, bellowing threats, but he had never managed to make her quail inside in the way that this quietly spoken command could do.
‘Except for that,’ she managed jerkily.
For another dangerous moment his fingers still lingered too close to her face, but then, just as she thought that she couldn’t keep control any longer, he lifted his hand away and let it drop to his side. The smile that he flashed on and off was like burning ice, no emotion at all in it.
‘See you around, Red.’
‘Not if I see you first.’
The words were muttered to an empty space. He’d gone, striding out into the darkness and the rain without a single glance back. It was as if defiance of his presence was all that had been holding her upright as she sagged back against the wall and let the door slam back into place.
He was gone. And she was free, safe—for now.
But it was only a temporary reprieve. There was no way she could hold off having Jett—in the form of Nairo Moreno—back in her life while he still wanted to see Rose Cavalliero. Right now he had no idea that she was the Rose he’d come to talk to, but she couldn’t hope to let that last for very much longer. He would put two and two together, and when he did, then he would be back.
She had to get rid of him; she couldn’t cope with him intruding into her life. Not just because of the past but because of the shocking effect he still had on her today.
Slowly her hand crept up to her face, covering the spot where Nairo’s fingertip had touched her. She almost expected it to have etched a brand into her skin, marking her as his. He had done that long ago, hadn’t he? He had touched her life and encircled her with bands of emotional and sexual steel so that she had never been able to break free. Even now, all these years later, he could still invade her life and if she wasn’t careful he would leave it in ruins all over again.
HE SHOULD NEVER have let himself touch her.
Nairo slid his car into the nearest empty parking space, stamped on the brakes with uncharacteristic lack of care and switched off the engine. His concentration had been shot all afternoon, in a way so untypical of him that it felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a form of madness. The tips of his fingers still seemed to burn with the imprint of that touch, the connection of skin on skin, even though it was hours since he had walked out of the shop and left Red behind. He was sure that if he brought his hand close to his face he would still inhale the perfume of her skin, the fresh, unique combination that was this woman mixed with the light floral scent she had worn.
Or perhaps that was because the cloud of her personal body perfume seemed to enclose him ever since he had realised just who she was. It had been like that after they had first become lovers. In the squat she had always washed every day, even in the freezing water that was all they had available, and the scent of her skin had been the only thing that was fresh or clean in the grubby little room that they had called ‘home’.
Waking up each morning to find her curled against him, the soft hair, longer and redder than she wore it now, falling over her face, had made him feel as if life was worth living at a time when he had had serious doubts on that matter.
She’d had her own problems too. Running from an aggressive and abusive stepfather, a mother who had been too weak to protect her, she had still given him a reason to wake up—if only because waking up usually meant another opportunity to take her in his arms, and give in to the heated passion that burned into his soul every time he touched her.
He had even thought about changing his life for her.
‘Change—for her—hah!’
The words punched into the air as he pushed open the door to the hall where the wedding fayre was being held, the violence of the movement expressing the way the memories burned like acid.
He had thought about change—had even taken the first steps towards it—and she...she had just walked out on him, never looking back. She’d also added an extra little sting to her departure that had come close to ruining every chance he had had of rebuilding what was left of his relationship with his family.
The burn of that memory almost had him turning and marching right back out again. He wanted nothing to do with Red—and yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Her betrayal, her desertion, demanded some sort of retribution and yet he had no wish to tangle himself up with her all over again. He had just about found peace after ten years’ hard work. Did he really want to stick his head right back in the lion’s mouth and risk it all over again?
But the promise he had made to Esmeralda held him prisoner. He had sworn he would bring her this designer she had set her heart on, and he was not going back on his word. Only with that contract secured and his sister happy would he consider just how he would deal with Red.
The sound of the buzz of many voices from the end of the corridor told him just where the event was being held and had him heading towards the glass-paned door.
The noise of conversation hit him along with a strong wave of perfume—a heady mixture of so many different fragrances. The room was full of women of all ages, shapes and sizes. There were flowers