Picture of Innocence

She looked up at him, and her eyes widened when they met his. What she saw in the black depths made her shiver with fear—she hoped it was fear … She tried to struggle free, but with insulting ease a strong arm swept around her back and his hand grasped her waist, holding her tight as his long fingers threaded through her hair to grip the back of her head in the palm of his hand.

A shocked gasp escaped her as she caught a glimpse of the naked desire in his dark eyes, then his mouth crashed down on hers. She raised her hands to push him away, but it was a useless gesture. His chest was as hard as marble—but a lot warmer, she realised without wanting to. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All she could do was feel as he kissed her with a demanding passion that ignited a spark deep in her belly.

Suddenly it burst into flame and her traitorous body was suffused with heat. Involuntarily she parted her lips to the hungry demand of his, her hands stroking over his chest and her body swaying into his in willing surrender. It had been so long, too long, and she could deny it no longer. She wanted Lorenzo—wanted him totally.

He lifted his head and stepped back. His hands fell from her and she was free.

‘The chemistry is still there, as electric as ever, and that is all I needed to know.’ She heard his deep voice as if from a distance—heard the hint of mockery as he added, ‘I’ll have that coffee now.’

Shamed by her body’s betrayal, she closed her eyes for a moment as the heat drained out of her. When she opened them she looked at Lorenzo. His expression was hard and uncompromising. She was tempted to ask him why he was really here, but she didn’t really want to know the answer because she had a horrible suspicion she would not like it.

‘Okay,’ she murmured, too shaken to argue, and, turning on her heel, she headed for the kitchen.

Making the coffee gave her a chance to recover from the body shock that had made her melt in his arms. She tried to tell herself her resistance was low because she was tired and Lorenzo had caught her off guard, it would never happen again, but not with any great conviction.

She returned to the living room five minutes later, a mug of instant coffee in each hand. Lorenzo had removed his jacket and tie and opened the top few buttons of his shirt. He was lounging back on her one and only sofa, looking as if he owned the place.

He glanced at her as she walked towards him, and re

ached out to take the coffee mug in his hand without saying a word.

It occurred to Lucy that tipping it over his head might give her some satisfaction, but resisted the urge and handed it to him. Her impulsive ideas had got her into more than enough trouble over the years, but her leap into property development had to be the biggest doozy yet. If only the bank had not been quite so briskly efficient in giving her a mortgage on this place. If only she had not been so quick to transfer the cash to the partnership to secure the development deal. Then it wouldn’t be so bad.

If only were the saddest words in the world.

She crossed to sit down in a battered old Art Decostyle chair she had been going to re-cover for ages but never got round to, and, taking a sip of her coffee, glanced around her home. But for how much longer?

Lorenzo was right about the factory. It only just about broke even, and after the taxes were paid there was little or no profit. So basically the only income she had was from the gallery, which barely covered the two mortgages she’d have to pay until she sold the house in Dessington. Any delay in selling and she’d very quickly go bust, she knew.

A frustrated sigh escaped her.

‘That was a big sigh, Lucy. Something troubling you?’

She cast Lorenzo, her nemesis, a furious look. Lost in her troubled thoughts, she had not realised his heavy-lidded eyes were narrowed, assessing her much like a spider studied a fly caught in its web, she thought, as he smiled.

‘I suppose you find it amusing, trying to wreck my plans. Excuse me if I do not.’

‘Not trying—I have done,’ he said, draining his coffee and cup and placing it on the occasional table. He straightened up. ‘Fifty five percent of Steadman’s now belongs to me. I can keep it open or shut it down. The decision is mine. As for your aspirations to develop the land adjacent to your old home—that depends on me also. Apparently your friendly lawyer called a town meeting to reassure the people and the workers you and Johnson had agreed not to close the factory. He went on to explain how a new development had been proposed and it was going to be sited in some of the eight acres of garden at your family home, donated very generously by you. That was a big mistake, Lucy.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she muttered.

‘Ah, Lucy—you should stick to art. Trust me, finance is really not your thing,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have you heard the term “asset-rich but cash-poor"? That is now you—because you have two mortgaged properties and a factory that makes little money and you cannot sell. The land you own could have been sold or even leased, but instead you’ve given away your only asset,’ he drawled mockingly, casting a blatantly suggestive glance over her body before continuing. ‘The outlined plan is for luxury housing, shops, a swimming pool and sports centre, and some less expensive housing to be available only for locals to purchase. The development to be named the Delia Steadman Park in honour of your mother. The whole town was delighted, apparently.’

‘How on earth do you know all this?’ Lucy asked.

‘I made it my business to know,’ he said, rising to his feet and pacing the length of the room. He turned and stopped beside her chair, staring down at her.

Refusing to be cowed, she met his dark eyes head-on. They were unreadable, and she placed her coffee mug on the floor as an excuse to look away from his harshly attractive face.

‘I also know that—unlike when I asked you, Lucy—this time you did sign a legally drawn-up partnership agreement with your developer friend. But your smalltown lawyer—who is, by the way, really more interested in his position as town mayor than lawyer—omitted to make it non-negotiable, and Johnson sold out to me. I am now your partner in everything except the mortgaged house in Dessington and this gallery, which you have also foolishly mortgaged. By my reckoning you won’t have this much longer.’

It was worse than she’d thought, and she looked up at him again. A cruel, sardonic smile twisted his mouth.

‘I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out to a woman like you what that means. I own you—for as long as I want.’

A woman like her … Was there no end to his insults? Her shocked glance saw his eyes were no longer unreadable. She recognised all too well the emotion that now blazed in them: dark desire, barely leashed.

‘And I do want you, Lucy,’ he said, and she could not suppress the shiver of revulsion his comment caused. An imp of devilment in her head defied her to name it for what it really was—excitement, desire, anticipation.