Gracie just shook her head. It was throbbing with a mixture of anxiety and lingering shock. Rocco de Marco’s focus seemed to come back to her, and with something that sounded like a snarl he stood up straight and took her arm, ignoring her wince. He was frogmarching her back to the lift and Gracie panicked, having visions of police waiting for her downstairs.
She started to struggle. ‘Wait … Look, please, Mr de Marco, I can explain …’
He cast her a dark look as he punched a button on the lift. ‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do.’
Fear and trepidation silenced Gracie as he pushed her into the lift ahead of him, yet kept a hold on her arm, and pressed another button once they were in. Silence, thick and tense, swirled around them, and Gracie cursed herself for coming here in the first place.
Standing next to him in the lift, she had a very real and physical sense of the disparity in their sizes. Her head barely grazed the top of his arm. His tautly muscled strength radiated outwards, enveloping her in heat. Gone was any trace of the man who had oozed warmth and seduction the night they’d met. Evidently if you moved within his rareified milieu you were accorded his attention. A few steps out of it, however, and it was an entirely different story.
Gracie did not need this situation to demonstrate to her that someone like Rocco de Marco would look right through her if he saw her in her natural habitat. Her stomach twisted. She’d faced down many opponents over the years with plucky resilience, but for the first time she recognised someone who was immovable. And more powerful than anyone she’d ever encountered.
Oh, Steven, she groaned inwardly. Why did you do this?
He’d rung her earlier, and she could still taste the acrid fear in her mouth when he’d said, ‘Gracie, don’t ask any questions—just listen. Something has happened. Something really bad. I’m in serious trouble so I have to go away …’
She’d heard indistinct noises in the background, and Steven had sounded distracted.
‘Look, I’m going away and don’t know when I’ll be able to get in touch again. So don’t try and call, okay? I’ll e-mail or something when I can …’
Gracie had clutched the phone with sweaty hands. ‘Steven, wait—what is it? Maybe it’s something I can help you with …?’
Her heart had nearly broken when he’d said, ‘No. I won’t keep doing this to you. You’ve done enough. It’s not your problem, it’s mine—’
Gracie had cut in, with fear constricting her voice. ‘Is it … drugs again?’
Steven had laughed, and it had sounded a little hysterical. ‘No … it’s not drugs, Gracie. To be honest, it might be better if it was. It’s work … Something to do with work.’
Before she’d been able to ask him anything else he’d said goodbye and cut her off. She’d kept calling his phone but it had only answered with an automated message to say that it was out of service. With a sick feeling she could well imagine he’d chucked his phone. She’d gone round to the small, spartan bedsit that he’d been so proud of and found it trashed, his stuff everywhere. No sign of him. And then she’d remembered him mentioning work and so she’d come here, to De Marco International, to see if by some miracle he was sitting in his office.
But she hadn’t even got that far. The minute she’d seen Rocco de Marco’s face she’d known her brother was in serious trouble.
Gracie was so preoccupied that it was a moment before she realised they’d ascended and she was being walked out of the elevator and into what looked like a penthouse apartment. The stunning dusky views over London added a surreal touch to the events unfolding.
A huge full moon was rising in the beautiful bruise-coloured sky, but it went unnoticed as Rocco let her go and moved about, switching on lights which sent out pools of inviting warmth. Gracie shivered and rubbed her arms. The rush of adrenalin and shock had dissipated, leaving her feeling drained.
She looked around and was surprised to notice that the penthouse, for all its modernity, exuded warmth and an understated opulence. The parquet floor added an antique feel, and the heavy dark furniture stood out against the more industrial architecture, somehow working despite the apparent incongruity. Huge oriental rugs softened the austere lines.
If she hadn’t been in such dire straits the artist in her would have longed to explore this tantalising glimpse into Rocco de Marco. Her eyes snagged on his powerful form as he bent and stretched. Her insides twisted and tightened—who was she kidding? Her interest in this man stemmed from a much more carnal place than an interest in aesthetics.
Rocco rounded on the petite woman who now stood in his apartment and curbed his physical response to that pale freckled skin and the wild russet hair which still trailed over one shoulder to rest on the curve of one small breast. The wild look in her eyes just before she’d sprinted away from him downstairs was burnt into his memory. It had touched something deep inside him. A memory. And he’d lost precious seconds while he’d been distracted.
She was nothing like the soignée beauties he usually favoured. Women renowned for their breeding, looks, intellect and discretion. Women who wouldn’t have allowed him to lay a finger on them if they knew what kind of world he’d been born into.
Anger at his own indiscriminate response and something much deeper—a dark emotion which seethed in his gut as he thought of her as Steven Murray’s lover—made him say harshly, ‘You will tell me everything. Right here and now.’
When she flinched minutely, as if he’d struck her, he ruthlessly clamped down on the spike of remorse. She looked very pale and vulnerable all of a sudden. Rocco chastised himself. She was no quivering female. There was an inherent strength about her that warned of a toughness only bred from the streets. He recognised it well, and he didn’t like to be reminded of it.
He dragged out a nearby chair and all but pushed her into it. Her small heart-shaped face was turned up to him and his insides tightened. Dio, but she was temptation incarnate with those huge brown eyes and those soft pink lips. Displaying a kind of artful innocence. His instinctive reversion to Italian even in his head just for that moment surprised him. He’d spent long years doing his best to erase any trace of his heritage. His accent was the one thing that proved as stubborn as a stain, reminding him every time he opened his mouth of his past. But he’d learnt to embrace that constant reminder.
There was a long, tense silence, and Rocco tried to figure out what was going on behind her wide eyes. And then she looked as if she was steeling herself for a blow. ‘What did you mean when you said Steven stole a million euros?’
Rocco opened his mouth and was about to answer when he stopped. Incredulous, he said, ‘You have the temerity to still pretend ignorance?’
He saw her small hands clench to fists on her lap. He remembered how spiky she’d been with him that night at the benefit, and how intrigued he’d been by her. He remembered kissing her hand, the feel of slightly rough palms which had been so at odds with the soft skin of the women he was used to, and how it had sent a dark thrill though him. She must have known exactly who he’d been and they must have been laughing at him all week. He burned inside. He hadn
’t felt so uselessly humiliated in years.
She’d seen him in a weak moment and he didn’t like it. At all. He hadn’t been weak since he’d left Italy far behind him, with its stench-filled slums and the humiliation he’d endured. Thinking of that restored Rocco’s fast unravelling sense of control. With icy clarity he said, ‘Who are you, and how do you know Steven?’