Then he stepped out of the shower, returned to his bedroom and dressed.
Jeans. A pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Moccasins. No underwear, because he damn well wouldn’t need any. He stuffed his wallet in his pocket and then he was gone.
* * *
It was eleven o’clock. Still early by New York standards, and taxis were plentiful. The night doorman whistled one up in seconds.
“Soho,” Luca told the driver. He still had her address in his phone and he read it to the guy.
Traffic was light. Fifteen minutes and he was standing outside her building.
It was only a few stories high, a big, well-kept Victorian, the kind of architectural gem that had escaped the wrecker’s ball. Another evening, he’d probably have spent some time admiring it. Now, his only thought was how to get inside.
Was there a doorman?
There wasn’t.
Instead, there was an unlocked glass front door that led into a handsome vestibule that—dammit—ended in another glass door.
That one was locked.
Luca looked around.
Built-in mailboxes adorned one wall. Call buttons were lined up on another. He checked the names. James Andrews. Alfred Bernstein. Lucy and Thomas Chang. Another few names and then he saw hers.
C. McKenna.
That ridiculous first initial thing again. Did she really believe that could protect her from predatory men?
From him?
The only problem now was how to get past that second door without pressing her buzzer and letting her know that he was coming, except it really wasn’t a problem at all.
He had not always been rich. Going to Columbia University on a skimpy scholarship right here, in Manhattan, he’d spent a couple of semesters delivering pizza.
One of the first things he’d learned was how often somebody called in an order and gave you an apartment number without bothering to add that the downstairs door would be locked and if it were, which of half a dozen generally unlabeled buzzers was the correct one to press.
The solution? You chose one at random and pushed.
Luca checked the nametags again. James Andrews, apartment 3C.
C. McKenna, apartment 2C.
He hoped James Andrews wasn’t in the middle of something important.
Bzzzz.
“Yeah?”
“Pizza,” Luca said pleasantly.
“I didn’t order pizza.”
“Your name Andrews? James Andrews?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, that’s what it says right here on the box. One large pizza, that’s a deluxe pizza, for James Andrews.”
The buzzer sounded. Luca grabbed the doorknob and stepped into a narrow entryway. James Andrews would be annoyed and disappointed this evening, but he’d smile tomorrow when the local pizzeria delivered a large deluxe pizza as well as a bottle of their best Chianti.
Luca took the stairs two at a time.
There were three apartments on each floor. Apartment 2C was at the end of a short hall.
He hadn’t considered what he’d say when she opened the door. How could he, when he was still hot with rage? Everything would depend on her because she’d be angry to see him…
Hell.
His eyes narrowed.
Nothing, not one goddamn thing would depend on her. There wasn’t a way in hell he’d let her anger stop him tonight, not when he was angry enough for the both of them.
He lifted his hand. Reached for the buzzer and, instead, found himself hitting the door with his fist.
“Cheyenne!”
Nothing. Maybe she was out. Maybe she was with another man.
Maybe he’d lost his mind.
If he had, it was her fault.
Her fault. All her fault.
His anger went up a notch.
“Cheyenne!” Another bang of his fist against the door. “Open the goddamn door!”
He heard the faint creak of a door opening at the other end of the hall and he swung toward it.
“This is a private matter,” he growled. “Mind your own business.”
Anywhere else, the threat would bring the cops, but this was New York. The door closed, and he turned back to Cheyenne’s apartment.
“You’re a coward, McKenna,” he said. “Each time things get tough, you run.”
He heard the slide of a deadbolt. The door opened only as far the chain would permit.
“Are you insane?” she hissed.
“Open the door!”
“I’ll call the police.”
“You do that and I’m sure Alene Beresford will enjoy hearing how we spent the last twenty four hours.”
What felt like an eternity crept by. Then the door closed. He heard the rattle of the chain and the door swung open.
Cheyenne stood centered in the doorway.
She wore a white tunic, a kimono, whatever in hell women called those things that hid their bodies while hinting at the lush curves of breast and hip. Her hair was an untamed river of wet midnight silk cascading over her shoulders. She smelled of soap and water and he knew she must have just stepped out of the shower.
His throat constricted.
She was the epitome of everything wild and beautiful, and if he didn’t have her soon, he was surely going to die.
“Did I tell you that you could leave me?” he said. “Did I give you permission to walk away?”
He heard his voice, heard his words and he thought, maybe he really was crazy. He had never spoken to a woman this way in his life, but he’d never let a woman turn his world upside down before, either.
“Answer me, dammit! Did I give you permission to leave me?”
“You truly are out of your mind! I don’t need your permission for anything.”
She was trembling. Her face was flushed. She was afraid of him and that was fine. It was what he wanted, what he’d come for.
“Yes. You do. You have to beg me when you want me to make love to you and beg me when you want me to stop, and you are never, ever to walk out on me unless I tell you to do so. Do you understand?”
“What I understand is that I never want to see you again.”
She began closing the door. He jammed his foot in the opening and shouldered the door open
. When she stumbled back, he caught her by the shoulders and kicked the door shut behind him.
He was out of control and he knew it, but only the explosion of the sun could have stopped him now.
“You’re right,” he said. “I am out of my mind, and it’s your doing.”
“Get out of here, Luca. Right now. Before—”
“Before what?” His fingers bit into her flesh. “Before what?” he demanded.
“Before I call the police!”
He laughed. Laughed! At her. At her threat. At the entire world she’d so painstakingly created.
“That’s it,” she said. “I’m calling the cops and to hell with both you and Alene Beresford! You really think you can come here and force your way into my apartment and—”
He caught her hand. Brought it to his lips. Pressed a kiss to her palm while his eyes bored into hers. All his anger had suddenly drained away.
“I want you,” he said. “I need you. If I don’t have you, I’m going to die.”
She made a choked sound.
“Damn you, Luca!” Her voice shook. “Damn you, damn you, damn—”
Then she was in his arms.
CHAPTER TEN
He’d imagined this.
It was what had kept him going through the taxi ride.
Cheyenne, defiant. Refusing to surrender until he demanded it and then the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her mouth, the softness of her body against the hardness of his.
Imagining had been exciting, but reality was electrifying.
He was a man on fire; she was the sizzle of lightning that had lit the flame. He was burning with the need to take her and from the way she was returning his kisses, her submission, her desire for him was complete.
He lifted her off her feet.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips.
“Where?” he said against her lips.
“Down the hall. To the right.”
Her four-poster bed stood near a window. It was high but not very wide, covered in what looked like a waterfall of white linen.
The long gown she was wearing had bunched up and she was pressed against him. He slid one hand the length of her spine and realized there was nothing under her gown. No bra. No panties. Nothing.
He groaned. He could feel himself throbbing against her.
“Cheyenne,” he whispered, “dolcezza…”
“Yes,” she said. “Now. Please, Luca. Do it. Take me. Take me…”