The Sicilian's Unexpected Duty
After the way she had reacted in the kitchen in the early hours, it would be a long day in hell before he touched her again. She would have to get down on her knees and beg before he would even consider making love to her.
All the same, he couldn’t resist reaching out a hand and tapping her cute little nose. ‘We leave in an hour, cucciola mia. Cocktail dress. Be ready or I’ll come in your room and help you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Is that a challenge?’
‘No!’
‘In that case, be ready on time. I need to shower—see you in sixty minutes.’
* * *
Exactly one hour later, Pepe knocked on Cara’s bedroom door. He half hoped she wasn’t ready.
Forget the good talking-to he’d given himself earlier about not resuming their sexual relationship; just three minutes sparring outside her bedroom had laid waste to those good intentions.
There was something so damn sexy about his red-headed geisha.
If only she really were a geisha. Or better still, his own personal concubine. He was pretty sure bitching at her master wasn’t part of either’s job description. Geisha or concubine, all the woman concerned herself with was her master’s pleasure. Seeing as it was pleasure of a sexual nature he wanted from Cara, he would much rather settle with concubine.
He was certain she did it deliberately, but she made him wait a full sixty seconds before opening her door.
The wait was worth it.
The quip he had ready on his lips blew away as his mouth fell open.
Pepe was used to dating beauties. He shamelessly used his wealth, charm and looks to pick the cream of the crop. Yet Cara outshone all of them.
Dressed in a richly red silk floor-length dress that showed off her curves, the sleeves skimming her shoulders to leave her arms bare, her glorious hair piled into a sleek chignon, she looked stunning. In her ears were heart drop crystals that shimmered under the light, and on her feet were shoes that had the same shimmering effect. Her make-up was subtle bar the lipstick, a rich red that perfectly matched her dress and made her kissable lips infinitely more so.
‘Mio Dio,’ he said appreciatively. ‘You are beautiful.’
‘It’s amazing what money can do,’ she said tartly, although her cheeks flamed to match her hair, her dress, her lips...
‘You are Hestia come to life,’ he breathed.
‘That’s appropriate seeing as the Vestal Virgins get their name from her Roman counterpart.’
A smile escaped his lips. ‘She was also the Roman Goddess of the Hearth—of fire.’
‘And I bet you see yourself as Eros—wouldn’t you just love to get your hands on the Vestals?’
His smile tightened. ‘Actually, no. I’ve found virgins too needy for my taste.’
It was a low blow and one he wished he could take back as soon as it escaped his lips. There was something about her spiky tongue that he reacted to. Her barbs penetrated him like no one else’s.
Cara’s eyes narrowed but she raised her chin and pulled the door shut behind her, her movements releasing a cloud of her perfume. ‘Then we are better suited than I believed. I’ve always found lustful men too immature for my tastes.’
* * *
‘How are you going to introduce me to your friends?’ Cara asked as they sat in the back of the blacked-out Mercedes through the dark Parisian evening. The city twinkled with what seemed a million lights, giving it a magical quality that enthralled her.
‘As my companion.’
‘Is that how you introduce all your lovers?’
‘I wasn’t aware that you were my lover,’ he responded easily, the coolness he’d displayed since she’d made the jibe about him being immature having dispersed. She much preferred it when he was cool towards her. It made it much easier to hate him.
‘I suppose you can always introduce me as your pregnant one-night stand who you’re waiting to give birth so you can get a paternity test to prove that you’re the daddy.’
She felt him tense, knew that beneath his tuxedo his frame had tautened.
‘Why are you happy to dress in a suit for business and wear a DJ for a party, but refuse to make an effort for your own niece’s christening?’ she asked, blurting out one of the many questions that played on her mind.
‘I wasn’t aware I hadn’t made an effort for it,’ he answered coolly.
She shrugged. Pepe’s choice of attire was none of her business. ‘So where is this party?’
‘In Montmartre.’
Now he mentioned it, the lights of the sprawling hill that comprised Montmartre gleamed before them, the white Basilica of Sacre-Coeur sitting atop, almost surveying all beneath it. As they drove into the bustling arrondissement, she pressed her face to the window to take in the beautiful architecture, ambling tourists and nonchalant locals.