When Nathan was close enough to see Roark’s wet hair and tuxedo, his jaw dropped. “What happened to you?”
He ground his jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”
“That was quite the show you put on with the countess,” Nathan said brightly. “I hardly know which scandalized everyone more—the million dollar bid, your make-out session on the dance floor, or the way you both ran out of here like you were in some kind of race. I didn’t expect you to return so quickly. She must have agreed to sell you the property in record time.”
“I didn’t ask her,” Roark snapped.
Nathan’s jaw fell open. “You paid a million dollars to get her alone on the dance floor, and you didn’t even ask her?”
“I will.” He furiously pulled off his wet tuxedo jacket, tucking it over his arm. “I promise you.”
“Roark, we’re running out of time. Once the deed is signed over to the city—”
“I know,” Roark said. He opened his phone and dialed. “Lander. Countess Villani left the Cavanaugh Hotel in a yellow cab five minutes ago. Medallion number 5G31. Find her.”
He snapped the phone shut. He could feel the elite families of New York edging closer to him. Most of them looked at him with bewilderment and awe.
Who was he? their glances seemed to say. Who was this stranger who would bid a million dollars for a dance…and then ruthlessly kiss the woman that every other man wanted?
He tightened his jaw. He was a man who would soon build seventy-story skyscrapers on the Far West Side. A man who would start a new business district in Manhattan, second only to Wall Street and Midtown.
“I know you.”
Roark turned to see the white-haired blue blood who’d brought Lia her champagne. He had to be in his sixties, but powerful and hearty still. “I know you,” he repeated, furrowing his brow. “You’re Charles Kane’s grandson.”
“My name,” Roark stared at him coldly, “is Navarre.”
“Ah, yes,” he mused, “I remember your mother. She had that regrettable elopement. A trucker, wasn’t it? Your grandfather could never forgive—”
“My father was a good man,” Roark said. “He worked hard every day of his life and didn’t judge anyone by the money they made or the school they attended. My grandfather hated him for that.”
“But you should have been at his funeral. He was your grandfather—”
“He never wanted to be.” Folding his arms, Roark turned away from the man dismissively.
The emcee of the auction hurried forward to get his attention. Roark recognized Richard Brooks, a Brooklyn land developer who’d once worked for a Navarre subsidiary.
“Thank you so much for your bid, Mr. Navarre,” the emcee gushed. “The Olivia Hawthorne Park Foundation thanks you for your generous donation.”
Just what Roark needed—a reminder that he’d just pledged a million dollars toward the very project he was trying to destroy! His lip curled into a snarl. “My pleasure.”
“Will you be in New York for long, Mr. Navarre?”
“No,” he said sharply, and before the man could ask him any more questions, he pulled a checkbook from his tuxedo coat pocket and swiftly wrote a check for a million dollars. He held out the check, not allowing a single bit of emotion to appear on his face.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Navarre,” the man said, bowing as he backed away. “Thank you very much.”
Roark nodded, his face cold. He hated these little obsequious toadies. Fearing him. Wanting his money, attention or time. He glanced at all the women staring at him with frank longing and admiration. Women were the worst of all.
Except for Lia Villani. She hadn’t tried to lure him.
She’d run away.
Faster and more determined than Roark, she’d managed to get away from him in spite of his best efforts.
Why had she run?
Just because he’d kissed her?
That kiss. He’d seen how it had affected her—damn close to the way it had affected him. It had shaken him to the core. It shook him still.
He hadn’t intended to kiss her. He’d meant to convince her to sell him the property before he seduced her. But something in her defiance, in the way she’d resisted him as they danced, had taunted him. Something in the way she’d tossed her long, lustrous black hair. In the way she’d licked those full red lips, moving her curvaceous body to the music, had maddened his blood.
She’d defied him. And he’d responded.
It was just a kiss, nothing more. He’d kissed many women in his life.
But he’d never felt anything like that.
So? He argued with himself. Even if it was desire stronger than any he’d known, the ending would still be the same. He would take her to his bed, satiate his lust and swiftly forget her. Just like always.
And yet…
He scowled.
Somehow Lia Villani’s beauty and seductive power had made him forget the most important thing on earth—business. He’d never forgotten it before. Certainly not for a woman. And because of that mistake, he might now lose the most important deal of his life.
Nathan had been right all along. Roark had been underestimating the countess. She was far more powerful than he’d ever imagined.
But instead of being furious, Roark was suddenly intoxicated by the thought of the hunt. The takedown.
He would take her property.
Then he would take her.
His body hurt with need for her. He couldn’t forget how she’d trembled in his arms when he kissed her. Couldn’t forget the softness of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her hip against his groin. Couldn’t forget the shape of her. The taste of her.
He had to have her. He wanted her so badly that it made his body shake.
His cell phone rang. He snapped it open.
“Lander,” he said, “give me the good news.”
Lia slammed the door of her silver Aston-Martin Vanquish convertible with a weary thump. Every muscle in her body ached. It had been a long twelve hours. She’d stopped at her town house in New York just long enough to get her passport and change into a knit dress and a cashmere shawl. She’d taken the first flight out of JFK Airport, connecting first in Paris then in Rome, before she’d reached Pisa. Even flying first class, the trip had been exhausting and long.
Maybe because she’d spent the whole time crying. Looking over her shoulder, half expecting the man to pursue her.
But he hadn’t. She was still alone.
So why didn’t that make her feel happier?
Looking up at the medieval castle on the edge of the forested mountain, she took a deep breath. But she was home. The medieval Italian castle, carefully refurbished over fifty years and turned into a luxurious villa, had been Giovanni’s favorite retreat. Over the past ten years, it had become Lia’s home, as well.
“Salve, Contessa,” her housekeeper cried from the doorway. Tears shone in her eyes as she added in accented English, “Welcome home.”
Welcome home. Walking through the front door of the Villa