Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

Just as she could not fall into Leo’s bed.

Oh, she would find a night in his arms explosive and unforgettable, of that she had no doubt. But they had a history of heartache and hurt, a past they couldn’t erase, and there was no escaping the fact he still didn’t trust her. Why would he? She was Douglas Shaw’s daughter, guilty by association in Leo’s eyes.

Perhaps seducing her and bedding her would have been no more than an opportune means of revenge?

Suppressing a shiver at the idea of such a callous motive, she closed the wardrobe door, pivoted on her heel—and screamed.

Leo.

Not inside the room, but standing in the doorway, his large frame silhouetted by the lighting from the hall. His hand rested on the handle of the door she knew she’d closed behind her. Had she been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard the latch click? Or had he worked the handle with deliberate stealth?

He stared at her—silent, unsmiling—then stepped into the room and quietly closed the door.

Fright galvanised her. ‘Get out!’

She hugged her arms over her breasts, glanced at the bed and considered diving for the safety of the covers. But he was already advancing.

‘Leo, stop.’ She was naked except for a thong! ‘This isn’t fair.’ She backed up, felt the wardrobe door colliding with her bare buttocks and back. ‘Get out,’ she repeated, but this time her demand sounded weak. Unconvincing.

He stopped in front of her, leaned the underside of one forearm on the wood above her head. The suit jacket was gone, the black silk shirt unbuttoned to a point midway down his chest. She dropped her gaze and caught an eyeful of hard muscle under a dusting of fine hair. Before she could stop it, a groan rose in her throat. She wanted so very badly to slide her hands inside that shirt. To run her palms over his wide shoulders and thickly muscled chest.

‘Tell me you are not a liar.’

She blinked up at him. ‘Wh...what?’

‘Tell me,’ he barked, making her jump.

She scowled to let him know she didn’t appreciate being shouted at—or being backed against a wardrobe naked, for that matter—but the set of his jaw told her he didn’t give a damn what she did or didn’t appreciate.

She found her voice. ‘I’m not a liar.’

‘Tell me I can trust you.’

She hesitated. Test or trap? Both, probably. She licked her dry lips. ‘You can trust me.’

His gaze held hers. ‘Now look me in the eye and tell me you do not want me, do not want this—’ The fingers of his right hand skimmed down her stomach, slipped inside her thong and, before she could fully realise his intent, pushed into her slick folds. ‘And then I will leave.’

Heat erupted between her thighs, flared like wildfire through her pelvis. Gasping, modesty forgotten, she dropped her arms and wrapped her hands around his wrist. ‘Don’t!’ she croaked.

He thrust one finger upward, straight into her hot, moist core, then withdrew and circled his wet fingertip around her sensitised nub. Her legs nearly collapsed.

‘Tell me, Helena.’

His rough command sent a hot shiver racing over her skin.

‘Tell me exactly what you don’t want.’

Convulsively her hands tightened on his wrist, his strong tendons flexing in her grip as his fingers stroked and teased. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, tensed her muscles to stop her body trembling. God help her. How could she tell him no when every inch of her flesh screamed yes?

‘So wet,’ he murmured, his other hand cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. ‘So ready for me.’

He kissed her until her bottom lip came free of her teeth, then sucked the tender flesh into his mouth. His tongue explored, invaded, as bold and shameless as his fingers—a dual assault that spun her senses until she couldn’t tell which way was up.

He eased back enough to speak. ‘Soon I won’t be able to stop, so if you want me to leave—if you do not want this—you need to tell me now.’

She squeezed her eyes closed and prayed for sanity even as a part of her scoffed. Sanity? She’d forfeited that the moment she’d agreed to spend seven days with him in Rome. And no matter how many reasons she gave herself for why they shouldn’t do this, why she shouldn’t give in—why everything about this was wrong—one incontrovertible truth remained. She wanted this man, burned for him, and it really was that simple. That natural. Just as he’d said.

She let go of his wrist. ‘Please...’ she whispered, not caring how breathless and needy she sounded. ‘Don’t stop.’