The Legend of de Marco

Rocco would not admit on any level that this desire to keep her close had anything to do with her enigmatic personality or her physical appeal. This was about seeing justice meted out. That was all. One million euros of it.

It was only when he looked at the leafy suburbs passing by outside the car that Rocco realised he hadn’t thought of Honora Winthrop once. Determined not to let the arrival of Gracie O’Brien derail his life any more than she already had, Rocco made a call and ignored the sense of claustrophobia that spiked when Honora Winthrop answered her phone.

Gracie woke from a fitful sleep at five the next morning. She was still disorientated at first, and a familiar knot came into her belly when she realised where she was. A grey dawn light was breaking over London. Her mind went over the previous day and evening. Thankfully she’d been in bed by the time Rocco had come home, and she’d only heard faint sounds as he’d moved around.

He’d made a curt phone call late in the evening to inform her that he’d be dining out and she’d made a face at the phone, hating herself for wondering who he was dining with. After Rocco had left the apartment that previous morning Gracie had looked wistfully at the apartment door and had even opened it—only to find a large atrium outside and a huge barrel of a man sitting at a desk which seemed to have a dozen monitors.

He’d stood up to an alarming height and asked easily, ‘Need to go somewhere, Ms O’Brien?’

Gracie had shook her head. ‘I was just having a look around.’

Perfectly friendly, the man-giant had said, ‘I’m George, and I’m here to take you wherever you want to go, so if you need anything just shout.’

Gracie had mumbled something incoherent. Evidently George was also there to make sure she didn’t go anywhere without him as her close companion. Exactly as Rocco had warned. She’d gone back into the apartment and made a phone call to the last housekeeper, who sounded like a pleasant older woman. She’d cheerfully outlined for Gracie the list of chores Mr de Marco would expect to be done.

Gracie had stood in Rocco’s bedroom and looked at the tousled sheets. His unmistakable scent had hung tantalisingly in the air. Musky and male. The indentation caused by his body had been evident, and Gracie had gone hot when she’d found herself wondering if he slept naked.

Feeling hot all over again, thinking of that bed and those sheets, Gracie registered that she was thirsty and got up.

She stumbled out of the room, still foggy with sleep.

She was only belatedly aware that the kitchen light was on when she walked in and had to squint her eyes against it. When she saw a big dark shape move she screamed, suddenly wide awake.

Eyes huge, she took in the sight that greeted her. Rocco de Marco was standing in the kitchen, bare-chested and in nothing but a low-slung and very precarious-looking towel, which hugged his hips and barely covered his thighs.

A million things hit Gracie at once, along with a shot of pure adrenalin: he must have just showered as his hair was still damp; his skin gleamed olive in the light; his chest was broad and leanly muscled with a light covering of crisp dark hair that tapered down to that towel in a tantalising silky line.

He was more beautiful than any man had a right to be.

Realising all of those things, and also that she was looking at Rocco as if she’d never seen a man before, she tore her gaze away and blurted out, ‘You’re meant to be asleep.’

‘Well,’ he pointed out dryly, ‘I’m not. I always get up around now.’

Gracie refused to look at him, hovering in the doorway.

Her heart was still hammering from the shock. ‘Shouldn’t you … put on some clothes or something?’

Again with that dry voice he pointed out, ‘You’re equally undressed. I might ask the same of you but I’m not sure I want to.’

At that Gracie looked at him, and felt scorching heat climb up her chest to her face. Rocco’s gaze was dark and lazy, taking in her bare legs, the T-shirt which came to the top of her thighs, and then moving back up to her face. Gracie knew she must look a sight, with her hair all over the place and wild. She couldn’t for a moment dwell on the fact that she might have seen a predatory gleam in his eyes. She could remember the distaste on his face when he’d stood back from frisking her.

Her throat was so dry, but she fought the urge to swallow. It made her voice sound rough. ‘I just wanted to get some water.’

Rocco gestured with a hand. ‘By all means. Never let it be said that I deny my prisoners the basics.’

That sardonic delivery restored some of Gracie’s composure and she willed herself to move forward to the shelves. Very aware of her bare feet and Rocco’s lazy gaze, she ignored him and reached up to get a glass on a shelf far too close to him for comfort. And then … couldn’t reach it. Not even on tiptoes. She was very aware of her T-shirt riding up over her bottom and cursed silently, thinking of her very worn plain white knickers.

Suddenly a wave of heat emanated from behind her, along with a distinctive scent, and a very muscled brown arm was reaching up past her to pluck a glass down. His front was almost touching her back. Gracie knew if she stepped back she’d walk right into him, and felt weak at the strength of longing that rushed through her to know what it would feel like to have his arms wrap around her.

But then he put the glass down on the counter beside her with a clatter and moved away, taking that heat with him. Gracie gripped the glass and slowly turned around. For a big man he moved incredibly silently and gracefully. He was already on the other side of the kitchen island, sipping from a mug, regarding her as coolly as ever.

Gracie felt as if she was wading through treacle just getting to the sink to pour the water. The air had become dense with some kind of tension that was completely alien to her. She felt as if it was coiling deep within her, making her feel alternately light-headed and shaky.

‘There’s bottled water in the fridge.’

Gracie filled the glass and cursed herself for not going that route in the first place. ‘Tap water is fine. Bottled water is a waste of money.’ She turned around with her glass clutched in both hands like a shield.

Rocco raised a brow. ‘Now you’re an environmentalist?’