It was no use. He was forced to help because there was no way she was going to succeed while he still wore his socks and shoes. Sitting up with a growl of impatience, he reached down to remove the obstructing articles while her hands slid beneath his shirt and began a sensual exploration of his satin-smooth back.
His shoes hit the floor, followed by his socks, then he stood up to remove the trousers. She watched him, her eyes like burning rubies, coveting each new piece of hard male flesh he revealed.
No other woman had ever looked at him the way Cristina looked at him.
‘Greedy,’ he muttered as she reached out to touch him, brushing feather light worshipping fingers along his full length. He throbbed and swelled and hardened so fast it was almost an agony. He had to fight with uncoordinated fingers to release cufflinks so he could remove his shirt.
Stripped naked he was beautiful. ‘Bonito,’ Cristina murmured.
Still beautiful…always beautiful. Her Luis, she thought helplessly as she drifted her eyes over his tall dark stance, with its arrogant masculine pride in his own prowess.
He came down beside her, stretching out along her slender length, then sliding an arm beneath her shoulders and lifting her towards him. He held her like that, with her hair rippling behind her and her passionate mouth parted, ready for the hungry onslaught of his.
Eyes like glowing emeralds looked deep into her eyes. He didn’t speak. She didn’t want him to. If he did they would fight, and all she wanted to do was make love. Would he know, afterwards, that he had been her only lover ever? Could men tell these things?
He moved then, claiming her mouth with a hot, deep, probing assault that pressed her back against the pillows so he could cover her with his warm naked weight. After that it was a voyage of rediscovery, hot and intense and achingly poignant. Neither bothered to look for restraint.
And six years was a long time to starve a fever. It was hungry and it wanted feeding. They fed it. Oh, yes, they fed it. The rest of the world might have come to an end and they would not have noticed or cared.
Neither heard the quiet footsteps making their way across the living room. Neither recalled that they’d left the doors to the conference room and bedroom hanging wide open. Kinsella Lane
stood in the bedroom doorway. She had been there for a long time, watching like a voyeur and listening to everything they said, with the cold blue eyes of hate.
She wanted Anton. She had always wanted him, from the moment she’d first seen him when she was only a very junior secretary at the Scott-Lee Bank, much too low in the ranks for him to notice her. She’d worked long and hard to gain entry into his select circle. She’d made a careful study of all the different women who’d floated in and out of his life. He liked blondes. She’d become a blonde. He liked them slender and neat, supremely elegant and sophisticated. She’d learnt how to achieve that elegance and sophistication. She’d honed and pruned and sculpted herself to meet the specifics of his sexual criteria. And he had begun to notice her. She’d seen the warmth grow in his eyes when he looked at her—felt the telling sting of his attraction towards her begin to catch light.
When he’d brought her along on this trip to Rio she’d thought it was because he was ready to deepen their relationship. His rejection of her in the lift the other day had hurt. But then two other employees had been present, so she’d understood and learnt yet another lesson—get your timing right. Or so she’d thought.
Now look at him, locked in the arms of the complete opposite from everything he had ever been attracted to. She was dark, she was small; she wore ugly clothes. Her hair was a mass of wild black twists and her breasts were too big. And there was no sophistication in the way she kissed him or touched him or taunted him or even spoke to him. Yet he was mad for her!
It was there in the way he shuddered when she caressed him. No finesse. No smooth, slick seduction. Just animal hunger and hard, hot sexual feast. Even the way he was covering her now and reaching round to wrap her legs around him showed an animal with no grace.
His lean golden flanks rippled as he made that first lunging thrust into her body. Her cry of pleasure echoed round the room.
Turning away in disgust, Kinsella left as silently as she had entered, stepping over discarded clothes and touching nothing, not even bothering to close those doors.
As soon as she gained the privacy of her office she opened the safe and took out the file Anton had placed there that morning, after his private meeting with a man called Sanchiz. Ten minutes later and she was replacing the folder in the safe, then picking up the telephone and dialling London.
‘ Scott-Lee?’ she said. ‘I think you should know that your son is intending to marry a Brazilian woman. A young widow—Cristina Ordoniz.’
There was a long silence, then a faint, slightly tremulous question. ‘Ordoniz, you say? Are you sure of that name?’
‘Yes,’ Kinsella confirmed.
‘And young, you said? How young?’
‘About my own age, Scott-Lee,’ Kinsella answered. ‘I understand that her husband was an old man when she married him for his fortune. Not quite the person you’d want as a wife for your son, I would think.’
Anton’s mother made no response to that. And there was another one of those silences before she said, ‘I will be catching the next flight to Rio. Thank you for helping me with this, Miss Lane
…’
He’d forgotten what it was like to have her breathe his name all over him. Forgotten too much, Anton realised as she blew six years of other women to absolute Hades and rolled him up, tied him up and packaged him with a label—Belonging to Cristina Marques.
Did he care? The hell he cared, he thought as he made that first driving thrust inside her, then stopped, watching in dark eyed fascination as she tensed, then cried out in an echoing response to their first time together, when she’d given him her virginity without bothering to warn him that it was there.
‘Long time, querida?’ he questioned huskily.
‘Sim,’ came the gasping reply.